There is not much to say
at this point, except that
I ate ROY G. BIV for dinner.
Red onions, orangey-gold
banana peppers, spinach,
romaine, iceberg, Hattie’s
blue dress, a purple poster
over our low table. There
were meats, too, cold cuts,
animals that died to be
pickled, salted beyond
their comprehension
or mine. The music playing
at the Subway was, oddly,
what makes me want to
thank you, this very night.
Thank you for the dance
under the vaulted cottage
ceiling, the unexpectedly
expected waltz by candlelight
as empty crimson lobster shells
and green lobster lungs gazed
vacantly from their white
china plates, atop a cotton
tablecloth. Thank you for
that last waltz, our hoping
it might be another kind
of first.
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