april 1 . why do i eat here every day?

the restaurant is

               mariachi

           and

sizzle

      and

           crunch, scrape

            and

you will never believe what i am doing tonight.

        and

in the middle of this is

                              idle glare

                                        and 

                                          salt on the table

                        and

             pages           flipping.

in all this noise,

all i can hear is              the silence

      of the boy and girl                      across from me;

               she is reading,

                  he is staring at the television,

                             or at the table beside mine,

                                               or over his shoulder.

she looks up at him like

         she can't figure out how she ever--

                                                            i mean, really, ever--

got tangled up with this guy.

                 i watch her lungs expand,

                                             heavy with irony

               as she rolls her eyes back around

to her stained and yellowed

romance novel.

just          sizzle

              and

           crunch, scrape

        and 

the turning of

another page.