rack of lamb in a bosc pear
sauce, chanterelle mushrooms
in white wine, plop of champagne
cork and crackling fire devouring
logs as fast as fed. rent
sits two months behind
his thoughts, the decrepit truck
hibernates in a snowed
in back alley, waits a new
carburetor. the diamond light drapes
candle chandeliers, glimmers on
other precious hands, she
dips her focaccia bread
in the pond of olive oil and balsamic
vinegar, he delicately licks her
ring finger, her lips tingle, tonight
he shows how much he loves her
this is the promise of this century,
this america, where they too, for a day,
can be king or queen, regardless
of their surname, the colour of their skin
if clean, if american express. his subtle
wishes are anticipated by a grey haired waiter,
who promptly refills bohemian crystals,
who could be his father, and calls him sir.
champagne flutes are raised,
toast to prosperity and love,
the bubbles rise to the rim
as the orchestra blows the first notes
on the metal brass, his feet tap,
he thinks he is free and medieval
walls are now history as he surveys
the room and knows he lives in a country
where he may ask anyone to dance