At a table in the restaurant

At the side of my eye there’s a man who is watching me
waiting to write. So I will, though there’s nothing to say.
And then out the words come, and they’re good.

Just out of sight I can feel his attention, sense what he wants.
So I burrow my head and I furrow my brow, I squint down
and stare up as if charting the universe here in my notebook.

And yes, if he asks, I will slip him a sonnet, signed with a word
for his son or his wife. And then no. When I look, I can see
him stare past at the tables and chairs packed with poets like me.