I choose a table in the middle 

To feel like I'm part of the rush.

Regulars are identified by their silence 

Receiving their drinks without need for a word.

I stumble over my order...

One small? tall? short? Fat ameri-frappe please hold the dairy...

I'm certain I did it wrong

Every hole in the wall has its own lingo

To distinguish those in the know

From those who wandered in 

 

I'm a wanderer, without a doubt 

The man behind me is impatient 

He's one of the silent ones 

Unsmiling in his dress shirt 

I wish I were a real person like him 

Who knew to say short instead of small

And didn't sit alone at tables 

Writing phrases no one cares to read.