He sits alone with his memory, talking to the air
In a crackly whisper, like the texture of pot scrubbers
Of a man who’s trying to remember too much
Black uniformed servers avert their eyes, trying not to stare
Keeping their distance from the Monday Madman
Who always orders Chicken Pot Pie and black coffee for two
When there was only one person there
The servers squabble in the kitchen
Over who would serve the old man, finally drawing straws—
Some sticks of raw spaghetti wiped from the kitchen floor
Of course, Tattoo loses
He trudges across the floor to where the old man sits
“Excuse me, sir,” Tattoo quaveringly asks.
“Would there be anything else today?”
The old man looks up, light in his eyes.
“Yes, something for my wife.”
The old man’s voice brushes across the patterned tablecloth like a caress
To the empty spot where no one sits
“We’ve come here every Monday for the past twenty years.”
Tattoo stutters, not knowing what to say
But then, a warm ghostly giggle brushes his nose, a note of forgotten laughter
And suddenly, Tattoo knows that
There are more things in heaven and earth,
Than are dreamt of in our philosophy