The POTW: Verse Til It Hurts


POTW #724
(Week of 16 May, 2010)

The Poem of the Week and I have been vacationing in Spain the last couple of weeks, but we're both back now, renewed, rejuvenated, inspired. Maybe a little jet lagged. Special thanks to Salvador Dali, and to the total strangers whose recommendations resulted in some excellent dining experiences. The meal that inspired this poem was not one of those. (Disclaimer: Poetry is not journalism. I almost certainly imagined almost all of this. I've been known to do that.)


She named a likely brand of wine
And thought she heard the waiter sniff
As though detecting from her mind
Some unpleasant malodorous whiff

And when she pronounced the appetizer
The waiter's eyelid started twitching
She swore he bared at least one incisor
As he slid resignedly into the kitchen

Their salads flowed like rapids down
Waiter to the side, observing
Frozen horizontal frown
Blankly reliving something disturbing

Then she the steak, her husband fish
And the tendons in the waiter's neck
Some protocol or choice of dish
Blithely, blindly incorrect

A flashy dessert and a cup of joe
He said "Of course" and turned a heel
But his subtle tone had let them know
How thoroughly they had failed the meal

Copyright © 2010 by Dave Grossman

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