They are human after all, you think,
as the waiter steps up to a table
out of sight of you,
reserved, corner table—
they too are thin-skinned and pleasure-seeking,
with their own feelings and their own sufferings.
You’re not so all alone
in your mess, your restlessness, your shakes,
they too will be full of doubt, dither, shilly-shallying,
even if it’s all about making deals,
albeit in its commercial manifestations,
but present there too.
Truly, the grief of hearts is ubiquitous
but whether they were ever in love
(outwith the awful wedded bed)
burning, athirst, desert-parched
for the nectar of a faraway
in the impossibility of a union of souls—
you won’t know, nor can you
ask the waiter,
who’s just ringing up
always avid for coupons
to quench a thirst of another nature,
though also deep.