-a poet’s fast end to a slow meal-

February, 2009.

We're gathered there for the trimonthly lunch;
the large circular table designated: "No. 32 / Columbus Park".
It's a dizzying array, this sea in grey and age-spotted scalps,
ranging through the expansive banquet hall of the "Venus de Milo".

At the table, you’re receiving their offerings in good faith 

which will cause you to become responsible for them.

You remember the active interiors and the outside romance
with the others seated at "No. 32 / Columbus Park"
who've long ago moved on and can not help you in the here and now.

Somebody says: “wasn’t the ledge filled-in by then”?

You remember: the glazed and violet boy pulled from the water.

One, invokes the title of an old “Platters” tune calling it: “real music”.

Another, shows-off Florida in pictures, then California.
Says next year, “the Bahamas”!

Even the wallpaper on this side of the banquet hall is emblazoned
with false-looking palm trees and impossibly pink flamingos
standing knee-deep in a blue, sort-of water.

Everything is foreign, now.
But you want them with you forever, the loves of your early life.

You're cutting into prime rib, rejecting potato skins, choosing the vinaigrette,
harvesting the rarest of beauties out of everything left unsaid.