Ode To Social Anxiety
Sitting opposite my wife
With my napkin
On my lap,
I gripped my fork and stabbed the duck,
Marinated in weird oriental sauces, so I thought,
Served with a smashed potato,
As I was crushed by an
Intensifying anxiety,
Aware (or thinking) that the two diners
At the next table
Were watching me.
My mouth was as dry as the skin on the bird,
My stare as steely as the knife by the dinner plate,
And the guy with the beard and glasses grinned
And whispered something to his wife
Who turned around
To look at me.
And I chewed on the meat that was as tough as nails
Between my teeth,
And I knew I was not only fighting a losing battle
With my culinary skills
But also, the people around me,
Who I knew,
Found my side profile odd,
And disconcerting.
That was the only explanation I could find.
We were on a ship and had no choice,
Our seats were allotted arbitrarily,
At the reception desk,
And my fellow diners, complete strangers,
Now had to contend
With my presence,
Having spoiled their evening
With my glancing and scanning
To see who was watching,
And guessing that they must be thinking
What I knew to be true,
Without validation.
I do look odd from the side,
So they say,
And the duck, was really quite tough.
When the diners had gone
I asked the waiter
“What was the sauce” and he said
It was plum puree.
Plum.
Puree.
And the ship sailed along
As we finished our wine
A man sang a song
We were both feeling fine,
And the diners had gone
To their cabins to sleep
Outside there were stars
And waters so deep.
But I didn’t go back
The following night
To our table
Beside
The strangers.
The inherent dangers
Of projecting our fears
On each other
Can be put aside
Because
We will never see
Each other again.
