Butterfly Meadow

There I am
at a fancy restaurant
tables arrayed with
Victorian linen
Lillith-cut-crystal
and Lenox china sporting
butterfly meadows
waiters serving food
fresh from the kitchens of Toscana,
appetizer of soft boiled egg
and Aquitaine French caviar,
hazelnut bread sticks,
an entrée of fresh oysters veloute
enhanced with black truffles
and poppy seed crispy wafers,
guinea fowl breast coated
with garlic and rosemary crust,
broad bean casserole,
green peas with bacon
and a cheese presentation of Roquefort
and spicy bread mille feuille with fresh grapes.

Somewhere among the soft pastels
of a Sunrise, I lay,
a side /dish of wild radishes
plucked from the roadside—
now and then I catch your eye
between the perplexing discussion
of “art de vivre”—knowing how to appreciate
the aroma of a good wine
or taste the tenderness
of a mouth-watering of meat

Your attention averts to me
full/ curvaceous bodied
pretty to the eye,
but deadly to the senses
you stare longingly
for the hot and spicy taste of me
the sudden pleasure
of all your senses coming alive

You begin to perspire
staining antique cloth napkins
with beads of lustful sweat
you sip some pouilly-fuisse
until you are practically
gulping it as a navy man thirsting
after a long roll out to sea

You see nothing else in the room now
but me, only me
you try to think of an excuse
a way to take me home with you
but, it's much too late for that now
everyone is staring, you
could not possibly get away with it
you rant like a mad man
if only you had seen it coming
if only you had paid attention
to the beauty of a wild radish!