meal at the bar

I have become unfamiliar with the notebook
once a thing of dependance
a crutch or bridge of some sort.
Now I return to it as a pastime
though I still hope for some conversation.
I am at the age where I can only read headlines.
I've forgotten my glasses.
I have come here to eat.
There is only the putting of food in my mouth.
I am hungry.
This is a fact I keep telling myself
far too long to believe it's actually true.
This is a place I know.
I know what to order.
I know where to sit.
Even if the counter is cold
it's familiar.
I like pita and hummus.
That's why I'm here.
Even if I must live beyond hope
I have a full stomach.
Some possibility of conversation is present
but as with all good things
it slowly turns to dust.