The massage of passing eyes
Haunting of steps walking
Thumping every time they
Look away. They can leave a
Finger, tapping on the table
To attend you, in that cloud-cast
Bar. Seconds passing
Into minutes, feeding hours
Before they look back
And your heart pumps again.

Seeding from those glowing eyes
Radiance to bring all glory
Unto a shameful self. Crowning
Above those others
An otherwise forgotten token
That could find tainted fiction
In some lesser folk, perhaps
But the allure of the perfect
Idea eats at that.

Eventually, they’ll stand up
Walk away from the table
Leaving you there, as you’d been
Without break, alone
And sit at another, populated
By your image, though across—
Sitting on the otherside
Of the cool date room
Leashing with that same smile
That leashes you.

You’ll stand up when they’re gone
Always have them haunting
Your other tables, bar perhaps
The one you settle at—
‘Cause when your own light’s dim
And the fictive stars shine
So brightly before us
Everyone wants the playboy
To pick them.

15.XI.24