LPiA-26 Nov. 4

[Tiger the Lion]

Let's Pretend it's April - Nov. 4

Rules: Write a poem for LPiA on the topic or form described. Each poem should appear as a New Reply to this thread. The goal is to, at the end of the month, have written 30 poems for the month of November. (or one, or six, or fifteen) Prompts may be revisited at any time. All members are welcome.

Topic : Write a poem inspired by Fine Dining. 
Form : Any
Line requirements: 8 or more

Feel free to reply with comments or kudos as you wish. 

Questions?

[CRNDLSM]

Time to rummage through the classified drawers,
pay discrepancies, discipline writeups,
dinner for two receipts from Bayou Pour.
Madison writing off casual hookups 

like they're business expenses, fancy foods,
hotel rooms, hiding them from her husband.
'Im not cheating! Hes living in the woods
and im helping him find an apartment!

He's a great welder and can name his price,
Sure his finances caused him some trouble
but look at this work, his skills are precise!
If I could, I would have paid him double!'

Carrying his body out to the van
The autopsy should show what killed this man.

[RiverNotch]

My mom observes acutely
that this teahouse serves
salt and chili pepper
frog's legs more like fish
than the chook-like lollies
we're used to from the country,

while I'm a bit more eager
in stating what is obvious,
that the pigeon's breasts
are just as concentrated
taste-wise as its thighs:
I still have lots to learn.

[matsunosuperfan]

* * *

“exceptional cuisine that is worth a special journey.”
—The MICHELIN® Guide

When the first of three entrees came with subtitles, you spoke
in Italian, even though this place was French. I’ve never felt hotter
in dress socks. The best part of Maine was a somber, inscrutable lobster
puree, of which I was graced with three drops: a shimmer of celery
oil, a rude pantoum on espelette Harry the Samurai wrote on his
cigarette break. The vague memory of a sunchoke. Why they call him

that, nobody knows. Marco, his teeth gleaming alginate white, standing
root-straight like he owed someone money, produced with a flourish
a foaming amuse of risotto. I couldn’t hold back — 

“Marco,” I said, “this seems to be rice with one
mushroom.”

At this, the lad brightened.

“It’s arborio, sir!”

“Arborio,” I said, “this is rice with one mushroom.”

In the kitchen, I told myself
somebody laughed.

At least Marco was trying! Rumpled, disconsolate, I shuffled off
to the Fortress of Solitude, found a towel pure as church and I rolled
in reverberant sound, loops of white terry, a cotton-weave breath. Upon return
Marco had folded my napkin to look like a heartbroken swan. You were a hand
model for Morris Chestnut, and I was a sweetbread you’d carelessly dropped.
In other words, dinner was faithless disaster, despite being hopelessly full
of Christ’s spirit, or your left foot making its bronzed leather exodus, angling
for my flied crotch. The check never came. You told me I looked like dessert.

You do your best,
your pinched mother would say,
when life serves you lemons—

  of course these were Meyers, less common,
      much sweeter, each little sac bursting with praise.