Pabulum

Abstracted eyes study plasmid menus. A rattle of gleams stirs coffee in a Montmartre café. A Cairo belly dancer glistens in her cocoon of sequined waves, wine glasses tinkle, while eyes speak. An old Catalan hotel, meals shared with a guitar playing moon. Starry Singapore ferry rides; we have packed rice and shrimp in banana leaves. The clock tonight strikes the length of bygone lusters, its hands calibrated to intervals of suppers and savors. Moonlight scrapes across roof tiles. If anyone were here they might think of a ghostly kitchen and a shadowy figure, but it is only I searching for pabulum, upon a midnight table set with long burnt out candles.