At dinner, we have cups of water.
The waiters come with plates of pasta.
My friend’s friends talk of watches that cost
Six thousand dollars.
A timepiece. They say it’s an asset.
The girl refills our breadbasket.
A piece of time right on your wrist,
A silver facet
That’s fastened at the bone. They chat,
Now turning to their phones, and laugh
About the price they paid
To ski in Aspen,
The rent their landlords charge in Chelsea.
We’re on the third course now, the meat,
And singing happy birthday loudly.
And we won’t leave
For hours. The candles burn quite low,
Collecting ash on napkins, though
No one notices this. Our
Warm, bright tableau
Will fade. It will get dark outside.
They’ll want to split the tab, decide
To hail a taxi. We’ll go home
To bed and rise
Again tomorrow. But — what if
We don’t? What then? I suddenly glimpse
The table where we sat, now filled
With strangers lifting
Their glasses to the birthday girl.
And I suppose, in this small world,
That’s how it goes. We’re here, then gone,
Gone in no time.
Watch.