they dine there Saturdays;
once the dire discussion of
which entrees to order is over, there
is mostly silence between them
and a candle that burns
on every table--wax trails
on the wine bottles which
cradle them; creating a grand grotto
of paraffin they take turns fondling
gone are those nights
when their hands locked
across the gingham, their eyes
seeing through the fire, blind to
any shadow it cast on the other
the light remains,
though now they see
only beneath it, a biography of
burnt offerings on the wine's empty
flask, a meal soon to be forgotten
Jun 2, 2017
Jun 2, 2017 at 10:30 PM UTC
they dine there Saturdays;
once the dire discussion of
which entrees to order is over, there
is mostly silence between them
and a candle that burns
on every table--wax trails
on the wine bottles which
cradle them; creating a grand grotto
of paraffin they take turns fondling
gone are those nights
when their hands locked
across the gingham, their eyes
seeing through the fire, blind to
any shadow it cast on the other
the light remains,
though now they see
only beneath it, a biography of
burnt offerings on the wine's empty
flask, a meal soon to be forgotten
Inspired by watching a couple in a restaurant...or perhaps by a million couples
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