Coins roll under the table, and I bump my head retrieving them. I spend the rest of the day questioning what I see: orange flags above a gas line, yellow birds with black wings dismantling a head of lettuce. 

It’s necessary, if impolite, to point sometimes. There is movement on the horizon, mustard on the sandwich. I once spoke a language as rich as a chocolate malt. Now the menu’s pictures have wires leading back to a crude head chef.

Lean in and tell me honestly: Do I have a head – as indicated by the French lesson’s illustration – or something entirely more alarming? Words travel through rusty pipes and emerge as other words. Or do thoughts do the traveling, swapping one uniform for another along the way?

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