A Typical Evening

As crystal goblets are slowly drained of crushed grapes,
the finest linens in all of Persia drape our table.

The head waiter, once the King of Thailand's personal assistant,
snaps softly, directing busboys to and fro,
their crimson slippered feet treading soft waves in luxurious carpets.

In the distance, a master of song strokes ivories with a lover's touch,
drawing a tear to my companion's eye with the sweet melody.
I draw twice from the opium pipe, inhaling the deathly smoke deep
within lungs almost virginal in their pinkness.

From the next table, whispers of conversation,
as two conspirators share a secret meal,
the tender lamb so succulent that they soon forget
the jealous wife and angry husband abandoned for the evening.

Bejeweled chandelier casts a warming glow down on our meal,
and the faint memory of cilantro lingers amidst the taste of Orient's pride.
A melancholy horn is suddenly heard,
its rhythm clings to that of the pianist in passionate embrace.

After dessert of the richest chocolate, served warm as the underside of sleeping queen,
a steel chalice of icy milk,
parted from cow's udder only long enough to chill to the perfect degree.

As the bespectacled owner, once Minister of Finance for the Ivory Coast,
prepares our bill, we silently retrieve our coats, one leather and one fur,
and depart without paying.