A Romantic Dinner
#5 of Poems
The candles are glowing ever stronger;
their light on tasseled curtains has yet to die out.
Lingering longer,
I wait for the door knob to make a sound.
I watch the thickening smoke curl upward, and I
watch it shift about.
The table's set: every fork, spoon, and knife
is silver, engraved, and just where it ought to go.
I should mute my pride.
I prepared the meal with guajillo,
the chili, of course, not the acacia fern,
but I doubt he'll know.
I'll take it out soon, don't want it to burn.
Just enough time to add fresh lemon juice before
he's due to return.
A Portuguese bottled, fine tawny port,
has been laid center table, in reach of both chairs
already uncorked.
No need, only desire drives me here.
Children worlds away can't sleep for pain of hunger,
but I just don't care.