On the way home,
In a nearly empty chain restaurant.
The lights are low,
I’m sitting slow,
And some children are playing on their phones.
So is dad.
I can’t see mum.
I’m reading about Russel Brand,
Receiving dough balls at my command.
The service is great.
The dough balls are not.
A recording sings happy birthday.
Customers wait patiently for silence to resume.
But silence is not what resumes.
Bad music is night time everywhere,
From door to wall and step to stair-
They’re all the songs of Fred Astaire,
Made blandly “fun” by a popular pair,
Of nothings. Each a millionaire.
In a good venue conversation is music enough.
Or are people too boring to bear one another’s company?
Or their own?
And be alone?
On the way home?
Russell Brand is interesting.
The calzone is better than the doughballs.
I didn’t need to order mashed potato.
Smile. Tip. Goodbye.
Time to go home and write a dull poem.
I’ll call it Frankie and Benny’s.