With paper hats still on our heads

Fotografia de Eve Arnold

The bill is being added up in the back,

As we speak.

That’s why we don’t see any waiters

Prowling around here any more.

The rustle of bills you’re counting

Makes me think of grass

Being mowed with a scythe in a graveyard

I don’t reckon it’ll be enough.

Dip your finger in what’s left of the red wine

And let me suck on it slowly.

I wish they’d at least clear the plates.

No prices on the menu

Should’ve been a tip-off.

Chitlings in angel gravy,

How did we ever fall for that?

Smooth-talking Mama, it’s your turn.

Charles Simic