Table for Two

We dreamed of a life of pâté en croute,

always arriving with a fig mostarda,

a life in which a contralto-green cilantro pesto 

could be counted on to refresh the gamey lamb.

Why should the search for perfect cheese puffs be less important 

than the search for pure black or the sound of one hand?

Together, we would change the world 

one warm French potato salad at a time.

Tonight, the truffles ebony, the marrow gleaming, 

her glass eye gazes out across the dining room

from the sepia photo over the bar,

and all these years later, here am I, man

of a certain age, overcome

with nostalgia, near tears, 

my carefully mussed hair 

glistening in the incandescent light.