There are so many people around me and I can hear everything they do:
Clinking of silverware, music humming, the light above me is buzzing too.
I can hear everyone’s heart beating, it ties my tongue and buffets my thoughts;
Oh, why couldn’t there have been more seating?

A muted waiter asks if I’d like some Advil as my lungs beg for air,
I wish he’d leave me alone, but it’s nice of him to care.
I’d like to go home, but I am three-hundred forty-eight miles away.
Suddenly, I’m overwhelmed because I sense that I’m not alone.

Person A puts a hand on my shoulder, I see a blur where a face should be,
But I hear the voice of my choir director, asking if I would speak.
And as I shake my head no, I realize I’m a burden and stare down at my toes.
Then, after a minute, I hear her walk away over the noise of all you schmoes.

Deep down I’m grateful, I don’t mean to be hateful, but please, shut up.
All the chairs scuffing, ice tinkling, shoes clacking, my eyeballs bursting!
I know my tone is short, but so is my breathing, so I ask you:
How soon will you all be done eating?

I begin to rock to and fro, counting every second that passes;
I feel prickly sweat because my skin is so hot it’s fogging my glasses.
So I rub my hands on my thighs in quick repetition, over and over.
I want to scream, but my throat is so dry that I don’t think it could happen.

I hear deafening steps behind me, and I’m terrified until I see the shoes of the waiter.
But I still recoil as he takes the water from my lungs and puts it where it should be;
The sound of a glass put down on the table that’s in front of me.
And now sea-salty water starts to pour from my eyes as I cry.

Silently, I flip up the hood on my raincoat and reach for the cup.
The cold shocks my innards, my hot hands steam, and I glance to the door.
I naw on the straw and feel the tears continue their stream as I stare;
I wonder why that waiter would bother to care.