They are human after all, you think,

as the waiter steps up to a table

out of sight of you,

reserved, corner table—

they too are thin-skinned and pleasure-seeking,

with their own feelings and their own sufferings.

You’re not so all alone

in your mess, your restlessness, your shakes,

they too will be full of doubt, dither, shilly-shallying,

even if it’s all about making deals,

the universal-human

albeit in its commercial manifestations,

but present there too.

Truly, the grief of hearts is ubiquitous

and unending,

but whether they were ever in love

(outwith the awful wedded bed)

burning, athirst, desert-parched

for the nectar of a faraway

mouth,

sinking, drowning

in the impossibility of a union of souls—

you won’t know, nor can you

ask the waiter,

who’s just ringing up

another bock,

always avid for coupons

to quench a thirst of another nature,

though also deep.