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.
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