Restaurant
Under white linen:
A boring conversation
Someone’s father tells a joke about perestroika
that someone does not understand
though someone laughs anyway
to be in the circle of friends
who can interpret jokes appropriately with laughter;
he surreptitiously, not maliciously,
pours hot wax, from centerpiece votive,
into sweaty callused palm
waits for the wax to dry —
then again, he decides to formulate a wax glove.
So the project begins:
Drips on pinky and index finger
wait anxiously to dry
and more drips.
During desert, the inevitable metaphysical question:
How will the glove be removed?
Grownups swig last coats-on sip
but no answers resound,
only everyone waiting for the wax to dry.