What Rose wanted
was a BLT:
Bison, Lemur, Tomato.
Instead, she twirled fettucini through fork tines.
Her date had once seemed so polite
in the restaurant.
Tall, proud, vaguely Italian –
Or was it the tan and the stubble and the polyester three-piece?
Tasteful, Eve had called him, back when that first date
was only a date.
“Ask him about Mozart,” she had said. “This is the date to ask about Mozart.”
Rose asked.
He replied: Amadeus is the Enlightened Voice of the Earth’s Soul.
Four years later, she now wondered:
If he had ever known the concerto of sunset
as it settles breathless
upon the polished stage.
The ciliation of bowstrings,
the ponderous hush of the bass,
the whispered envy
of the piano
in the corner.
Tonight he read Dickinson
at the table
as the waiter took their plates
and then returned
with refills.