We’re eating pizza:
your rabid colleague pounces at our table,
ravenous for coins.
I want to feed him, but I never carry any.
Lover tells him no.
He retreats, foaming profanities,
and then you arrive: less frenzied, more pitiful,
Lover says your limp is staged.
Approach is different: “it’s embarrassing” you say,
“you’re eating, I’m not.”
Lover threatens to stab you, Waiter intervenes.
I wish I had euros,
I would’ve given you them all.
For I want you to know that this world,
isn’t actually rotten.