The buffet opens
and no one comes.
The waiters stand around
in their white shirts
crisp as the tablecloths.
The food is the day's offering,
regardless of its fate,
and a poet
sits at his table drinking tea,
scrawling in his notebook
another sacrament of words.
Max I can see you sitting there, and understand this poem so well. A slice of life penned to perfection. It's what you don't say that you convey so eloquently. love, Allie xxxx
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
You write regardless of who comes, but this one has been tasted and it's good.