Eating Out

My fork
its silver set off
by the muted light
traverses
the tender white flesh
the brittle ribs
that preen
with their offerings
as the music
and the subtle
play of the wine
divert me
from
the swing
of the double kitchen door-
As the Latinos
scrape the masticated
bone and marrow
into a bloody bin
and flashes a gold toothed smile
at the chef
whose cleaver
tears through a prime cut-
then holds some
fraction of a gelatinous liver
quivering in his hand....

Meanwhile I order dessert.

Doug Holder * published in mothwing.com and Spare Change Newspaper.