I jab at my food, make it into shapes,
rearranging the roasted kernels
and carrot bits into a psychedelic
masterpiece.

The clanking of forks and plates
draw my attention.
I use the table clothe to wipe the
smudge on my wrist and forearm—
an etiquette unmatched.

My cup brims with crimson delight.

5 years of age the waiter says.
The aging of wine.
The perfect merlot.

A lofty meal, a perfect aesthetic—
washed away with a swig of wine.
It sits at the pit of my stomach.
a hodgepodge of a mess,
my stomach knotted.
An art of its own.

Rolls of stale bread aligned in perfection.
Stained dishes made of chinese porcelain.
The waiter comes over to our table
to pour us a glass—
mine shy of a sip, or two.
“Do you care for more?”, he asks.
“We have the whole bottle left.”