I eat by myself

The chairs at my table—
they’re always empty,
and my belly’s never full.

My friends say it’s sad
to always eat out by myself.
Then why don’t they eat with me:
they eat with their families.
I eat out by myself.

The silverware are my new friends.
They’re telling me a story.
It goes something like this…
(Oh) Aeroplanes and rocket ships
are parachuting memories
of peaceful times before battleships,
when we’d sit by the sea
and laugh about farts.

My friends think it’s sad
that I talk to my forks.
So why don’t they talk to me:
they talk on their telephones
but just not to me.
I eat out by myself.

The window in my restaurant—
that I always sit by—
looks out on the streets.
It makes me want to drive,
so I get inside my car
and drive to the farthest star.
It’s really bright,
in the centre of the universe.
I brought all my calculators.
I’ll charge them up well.

My friends say it’s sad
that I lie all the time,
but I just laugh at them.
Tell me something new.
I eat out by myself,
what do you expect?

Similes and metaphors,
themes, motifs and then some more
unfold like a map.
These stories keep me company;
they’re like my own memories
and that makes them true.
Their authenticity
is dreamt up inside of me
when I eat out by myself.


My memories made me famous.
Now, I book lots of lectures,
they’re tough to get in.

My friends call my house
they want to hang out. Now,
we all know why they like me now.
It’s not a mystery
and should probably make me sad.
Yet, I can’t help but laugh.

I eat out by myself.