The Dinner

I set the table; I did not. The pourer did. The poor did not. The seats are cold; merlot is warm. The pourer asks; there are replies, sips, guzzles, sighs, manners. I am satisfied as each one’s drunk. The pourer leaps from spot to spot, wincing, squinting, craving approval. I smile; I nod; with each intonation, accent, sound of a lady and a gentleman. The table is set quite elaborate; each course, choice: salad, pork, dessert. The hour becomes late; drunkenness from each glass poured. I am satisfied by the pourer; rich with the scent of merlot and more. He’s the only one left of my friends. The seats are cold; he is warm.