mesa

there are times

he wishes he had a table

maybe a chair

or two

in one motion the cloth would be pulled

and then count those

remaining

in this town

this

place

this

room with seven walls

he looks at the radio

remembering a song

about a long december

and a green eyed girl

a broken bed

and tickets waiting

at a station unfamiliar

he lets the package fall

forgetting

there is no table

there is no hurt

there is no pain