the busboy

I drive around your block

in the evening

just to see the house lights on

and perhaps catch a glimpse of

your shadow

I’m not drinking again

because

I never stopped

the children (following your instructions)

just called me

I was at work

I tried to save the message

but erased it instead

the cook is my friend

the waiter is my friend

the manager isn’t

before closing

I fix myself dinner to go

a small styrofoam box

that will rest on the passenger’s seat

occupying your place

I’m just a busboy

somebody else gets you

what you want

while I brush the edge of the table

with my fingers

in an attempt to retrieve the slivers

of hope

that may have fallen

from your eyes