0009 Railway Restaurant Poem by Michael Shepherd

The staff behind the bar
freely exchanging comments
in their language you don't understand
stare blatantly at you
as if you are a travelling zoo -
that's their perks; that and the odd
pick-up; why else should they work here?

The waiters
take the orders, lay the plates
with silent scorn, concealed disdain
- and, perhaps, a hint of compassion?
no, I think not.. how, they seem to wonder,
could any foreigner be so ignorant
as to eat here?
The drained ghosts of vegetables, and
would m'sieu like his meat
insulted lightly, heavily, or mediumly?
They long ago exhausted their pity.

Their compassion is reserved
for their fellow nationals -
they know that some strong reason
obliges them to eat here - perhaps
a funeral in the provinces. There's
the shadow of an implied shrug
as they lay the plates
with ancient formality,
take the redeeming order
for alcohol in which all sins are dissolved, forgiven

they're secret students of humanity;
they may discuss you and your strange behaviour
when they get home to a leisurely meal,
(a fine cut of meat beneath their jacket) :
dream of opening a small restaurant
somewhere in the provinces;

they'd miss you, though;
for anatomists,
friends are no substitute for strangers.