No apple seed or half eaten cod could commiserate
the plate like the dinner-side blares of water-logged trumpets.
When the chef recommends a garnish of caramelized pie crust
on the diners’ chocolate mousse, they chuckle at his wet boot
tongue for which they can’t place the origin. Loose tie gentlemen
twitch for the company of a cigarette and the women buckle
their slender fingers tighter around the stems of wine glasses.
Crumbs glaze the beard of chef and they all know that he must dip
into the wares. But the night can’t be helped. The dinner was meant
to erupt with each soggy note of the trumpeter, sword fishing the jaws
of patrons in a rigged collection of laughter. Cigarettes held the hand
of the unwanted conversation—even the dog bone centerpiece
could not arouse flapping from a single tongue. One might suspect
that the cod froze To their mouths or the chef forgot to nail in the heat.
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