not even the waiter

what fuel you left  
seeping into the tarmac  
naked and quivering  
terrified of the dangling ember  
skywriting the ‘almost’ like a mosquito  

the 'am' of 'i' falling short  
the rubiks cube of me  
mundane and common  
awake in an empty corner  
turned witness to silence  
 
im a sous-chef of hors d'oeuvres  
i know  
you can hear the knives sharpen  
the tempered steel of preparation whispering in your ear  
swelling irises like the moon on a crisp night  
 
tantalizing, but hardly a meal
   
i'm not the chef  
nor waiter  
not even the busboy  
but id be your dishwasher
attendant to your slippers
when satiation leaves you blank  
and the delicacies fade  
and lucid dreams fill your closed eyes  
id mop the floors  
to the echoes of your heels
all while you slumbered