Nameless Thing

Something similar (but not really) to Day In and Day Out. Written on the same napkin.
I'm not sure I like how this turned out, but considering that it started out as a run-on sentence that took up two whole pages, I'd say it's an improvement, at least.


I've sat at this café so long that the waitress is starting to wonder
who this strange person is at table six who puts creamer in her
coffee and then forgets to stir it every time.
[She knows when it's time for a refill because that last sip
comes with a wince and a snarking-back of cold coffee-grinds.]
The cook's been out twice to catch a glimpse of this mysterious customer
who only orders condiments and utensils, and writes
synonyms for "synonym" in the window haze,
watching the I's cry.

I lean my chin in my hand and watch the world;
listen to the click of heels on linoleum,
the slamming shut of windows and descending-swish of blinds.
It's all just so mundane.
I wish to hear the music again; the metaphors and anecdotes:
babble translating to verse.

The man at the table next to me knits;
the muscles in his arms throbbing to the drone and jumble
of dishwashers and air-conditioners.
Music notes lay buried in his fingertips,
inked into his flesh, most likely, during a bout of alcoholism.
I wonder if he even knows what they mean,
or if he simply wrote FACE on his knuckles for the irony.

A family sits at the middle booth, and I can tell by the body language
that the husband is having an affair (probably with a pretty, young blonde)
and the wife knows but will never say, and the oldest daughter is anorexic
but only the carrot sticks know (and they're slowly being consumed: boiled and tasteless).
And the little boy? He's rambling about skipping-stones and redwood trees this big around,
and sea lion caves without end - full of crab shells -
but no one's listening and it makes me so sad
watching, because they are one child short and nobody notices.

"There is a child missing!" I want to scream. A little girl: stolen by sneaker-waves.
But I just sit there, swirling Tabasco around in its bottle,
and pretend that I can't notice that hole in the fabric:
a little girl missing, buried in a dark lonely hole,
remembered only by the flowers rotting next to her tombstone
because pictures of Easter-egg hunts and Fourth of Julys are just too painful
and moving on is so much easier than lingering.

My hands are shaking and the waitress is wondering
if she should call Officer Bailey or cut off my coffee,
and the rain outside is making all of us wish we could curl up
in a gulley somewhere and swim down the hillside
because it's all just so mundane.
I'm organizing the jams and jellies by the shape of the container
and the number of unpronounceable ingredients,
and trying not to see (with insight) that there are holes in everything.

But everyone can see it:
the empty feeling in the mother's womb (longing to cradle that baby until it's safe again),
the father's vacant arms (wishing for one more chance: one more opportunity to
fly that toddler under the covers, tuck her in tight),
the sister's shrinking stomach (wanting to be less than substance, smaller even
than that sister sleeping in the earth, locket in her hand.)
What's saddest, is that the little boy is too young.
He won't sense what's missing until later,
when home videos are suddenly stopped-short or fast-forwarded,
and postcards resurface, signed by one too many children.
And then it will be too late; the ground will have forgotten the
fingers of the shovel, and moss will sleep in the hollows of her name.

"There is something missing", I want to whisper as I watch the world,
but no one's listening and it's really just too mundane.
No one else sees the fractal spiraling like a double helix: reeling, unwinding;
the holes in the fabric of reality:
tiny perforations where children should be (laughs and smiles missing
like baby-teeth) making the sky tremble with night;
pin-pricks with anti-gravity leaking through
like the negatives of stars.