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Going alone is grand
it is something too good to waste
it is the freedom to move
and never be late
going alone is lonely
it is a memory for only yourself
it is a moment you share with strangers
pictures for your bookshelf

The music blares out on the street
inside the linen tablecloths
are fresh as laundered sheets
there is a movement inside of me
it is hard to describe

I am sitting here in a good room
along the arcade outside this room
are tables and couches and silverware
they form the perimeter of an atrium
planted with trees three stories tall--
it used to be a courtyard
before civilization banished all horses

 
except for the calesas that breathe the fumes
of death-belching traffic in overcrowded streets

I sit in this black and white
checkered marble-floored room
there are antique floor lamps
amber light
there are old armoires
gilt-framed portraits on stucco walls

It is nice
the food is fine
I am at peace and desire company
not necessarily to talk
but to hear another's spoon
clink against the wide soup plate
to hear the rustle of another's napkin
when lifted to wipe the mouth
to hear the faint swallow
from another's taste of wine

That is all
that is the loneliness I feel now
as I sit and dine alone