Requiem for Haute Cuisine

blanched beyond white, visitors staggered
into the restaurant, ignoring place settings
for the moment, simply stunned.

each one aghast in robes of black,
effortless or legless in
their movements, whipping sideways down narrow
aisles huffing now, losing
their aplomb entirely, their
tired cowls dropping off heads shaved
for discipline.

fruits sliding into jello,
mountains of mushrooms awry,
each monk mystified by habits
malformed by choir-boy years, music
misheard by congregations
poised for soup, not eager
for salads.

still they came, buses revving engines
outside while mincing predilections for ambrosia
lingered on faces stern with rebuke, exhaust
fumes sucked in by air conditioning.

the chopsticks never arrived,
these utensils replaced by cold blades
razor-thin, splintering grapes in two,
hacking at marmalade, depositing caviar
onto plates steaming with
ravioli.

would no one notice
and stop the chorale before it
loomed too close for enrichment?