A quiet boy I don't even know
Sits across from me.
Who keeps his eyes on his plate,
And his hands on his fork.
Until he leaves without a sound,
And I stare at the empty seat.
And I have the thought,
That the empty seat is me.
An empty seat at our crowded lunch table
Filled with noise.
That's not so crowded,
And not so filled.
And I have the thought,
That it really doesn't matter
If there is another chair;
If I'm there or not.
I'm just another seat to fill,
Another seat to your left;
Left empty.
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