It's the same spot
where I sit
but I barely hear the caller
over the dryness of your last reply.
There is no joy on my bingo card,
and I can't cross out
nor passion nor love
when my slots read only regret.
And I look around
to the ordered lines that the others
are filling in. The marks in front of me
are all scattered.

It's the same spot
where I sit
and the hall
doesn't care
that our card
wasn't a winning one.