The Waiter's Eye

All this stuff made sense somehow
Poetry when I wrote it or so it seemed
The whole thing just a moment's look
at whatever came along and caused

The muse in me to muse, if anyone
believes in muses anymore, but
that's getting complicated and I know
that poetry's supposed to be thinning

Not fast food, but an evening out
Five courses across linen and candlelight
I feel I've ordered the wrong wine
Made myself a fool over silverware

Which fork is salad, which is meat
I hope perhaps you'll understand
this place is pretty well beyond my means
I hope to have enough to leave a tip

But the waiter's eye is hard for me to catch
Some people are more meant for waiter's eyes
They're instantly there, smiling and obsequious
I have a hard time getting coffee