Poem The Waiter’s Name Was Confucius O’Brien

The Waiter’s Name Was Confucius O’Brien

I explained to him what had happened.

Everybody wants to hear the story.

She is not really a difficult person. Well, you know what I mean.

It was after dinner and we were having a couple of drinks.

We were talking and it was one of those

moments when you know exactly what to say,

what the other person needs to hear, to know

to solve at least half their problems, and you

suddenly freeze because they have

the exact same look on their face.

We both stopped talking.

The giant hairy-assed truth in the restaurant

walked up and bit both of us on the neck.

In that moment we both realized one of those green kryptonite truths:

we love our problems.

We love them a lot.  They define us in the coldness of the universe.

We don’t need anyone to tell us what to change.

Everything hung in the balance.

It is like an old West gunfight, who will draw and fire first.

Then we mutually agree to go to commercial and hold our wisdom.

She remained perfect.  I remained flawed but reformable.

The waiter brought us more drinks.

We went out again the next week.

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