I see sparks of electricity
in the eyes of the girl with the flat
chest, and I wonder if she’s tired
and I wonder what’s on her mind.
As she sweeps past my table,
I flash her a smile.

She hastily returns the smile
and there’s that electricity,
reflected in the Formica table-
top which doesn’t quite sit flat--
not that I really mind;
I’m far too tired.

She tries hard not to appear tired
and to maintain her smile,
but I know in my mind
that her heart’s electricity
longs for the flat-
line, but instead she waits tables.

I motion her over to my table,
the legs of which feel weak and tired;
I know a bit of cardboard would keep it flat.
As she sits down, I smile,
and I feel the synapse-electricity
begin to jumpstart my mind.

She says she hopes the cook won’t mind
that she’s taking a break at my table,
while watching the electricity
bounce, white and tired,
in the lightbulbs, and she smiles,
laying her hands flat

on the table. She says her flat
is small, but she doesn’t really mind.
But now she doesn’t smile
at her pink-haired reflection in the table.
She says her mom is mortally tired,
and she can no longer pay for electricity.

“15 is my flat,” she says, rising from the table.
I nod, knowing I won’t mind that she’s tired
because she’s full of electricity, and I smile.