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.