The Lunch

I sat with him, at least I think I sat,
drooling over simple things,
the words, that make him Billy Collins.
I listened to his recent stories
about staying with his billionaire friend,
about servants and piaya dinners
on the beach in the Hamptons.
About how odd it felt to actually pay

for a meal after living the high life.

About how the Hamptons
used to not be the Hamptons.

We sat on folding chairs

at a lopsided table

with our Styrofoam plates
and plastic utensils ,

under a tent.

I listened until a lone ant
caught my eye. Unaware
of the company, it crawled

across the table in Star of David

patterns from plate to plate,

looking for a meal or at least a path
back to its hill in the grass.



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