Waitress at the Morpheme Cafe

The Song of the Scar

Yo, doofus,

you might want to give up on that undercover agent spy career;

you woke everyone up at one AM

when you tried to look through my window and instead you fell out of the sycamore yelling "Crap!" at the top of your lungs.

And you can stuff those threats and promises

because one little ring-shaped scar on my cheek tells a different story,

It whispers to me when I read your letters declaring that you're suicidal

and says in my ear, "Men have died for many things but none of them for love"

and "Remember the crack, the slap, the sudden stars, the tilt of the horizon when your head snapped back -

do you remember those things?"

And the scar says, "There is a ship, waiting at the dock, loaded with spices, haresfoot oil, raw silk, and secret journals. It sails at dawn,

if you are not there on the gangplank at sunrise, the crew will hoist anchor and leave without you,

and you will have to stand at cliff's edge and shade your eyes with one hand

to watch as the ship, with ropes and canvas most beautiful and filled with wind,

as the figurehead slices into the pelagic zone, never to return."