I suppose this is being adults. Slim candles.
Oysters, coughed out like clots of phlegm
from filthy shells. Perhaps you think you’ll
seduce me with the float of your brow,
the thin smile above your collar starch
you’ve practiced in the mirror. Tip champagne
down your throat and pretend to like it.
Swallow a belch. You make some vague comment
about French wine, Provence, Bordeaux,
you might have once seen on a classroom map
or your mother’s trolley, her frizzed hair
drifting like cumulus through the aisles.
The menu purrs, du, de la, like a fly
stuck fast in the laminate, swimming on a plate
of foie gras, bouillabaisse. Look at you,
a connoisseur at last, sticky as boiled ham
in your high street shirt. I swallow a mouthful
and swill it around my tongue. You blush.
I do not pretend to taste grapefruit, pamplemousse,
crushing in the winepress grapes of Champagne,
the sputtering Veuve-Clicquot.