Loons of the Square Table

We almost looked sane,
sitting two by two per side,
each reading
and writing,
hiding split personalities
and wacky
cigarettes behind our ears.

A waitress walked
by and smiled,
and I felt sorry
she did not know
who we really were,

or that the one
with purple flowers
on his socks could crack
at any second,

tearing out her pink
hair and running
through the streets
like Charlie Manson
on parole
at last.