Just Waiting For The Check, II

No matter how I look around

It seems the waitress can't be found

From the decor, it should be clear

it's not its charm that keeps me here

The meal is done. It wasn't great.

There's still a crime scene on my plate.

I flag a different gal this time

She says, "That station isn't mine."

The radio is stuck between

the nursery rhyme and the obscene

Not that I've somewhere to be,

I'd cut the culprit at the knee

for trapping me within this hive

where flinching is to be alive.

The dishes crash somewhere in back.

These strangers' eyes are an attack.

I try the busboy, wave my hand,

speak slowly so they understand.

I am still Crusoe, freshly wrecked

and I'm still waiting for the check.