Chewed out by himself,
he bends the fabled wishbone
at Tables One through Four
with just the bones to wish for.
See how his left hand wins,
his right hand loses,
while he expresses both
with the same stuffed stare.
Note the waitress bears no witness
at a dollar-tip-per-special.
She's busy with her back to him
setting Tables Five through Googol
on the infinite images of mirrored walls,
calibrating Formica and stainless steel
with crushed creamers and squeeze bottles
and the smear of a soiled rag
to make the stay seem better.
The mind concocts its own demise
when seeing lies
in what it dreams
but not what seems
to have at least a shade of truth.
It fears when youth
loves as it does
and feels what was
must always lead to what will be.
The mind, you see,
construes that fate
bears zero weight.