i wish you could have seen the napkins. at
the cantina. seen
how they were folded.
as if in a song,
a middle aged bartender,
alone at night suddenly
stops what he is doing.
he begins to methodically fold
and refold,
an unassuming pile of thin, white napkins.
it is not enough to simply place each one in
the small, plastic cup
that adorns
each small, wooden, table.
He must,
instead, fold, corner, to corner,
as if tucking his only girl in at night.
Only to place her in
a small, plastic cup.
by the salt.
at the Cantina.
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