Couplets

Two have ordered
one table reserved

for glances, knees
quick kiss to the lip of the glass.

Two expect
their plates, their fill
brimming with icing
absent cake.

Upon liquid forkfuls
two will gorge

expect to gorge, to hoard
each other's gaze
lose the waiters, lose the lights
lose the gingham cloth

in loops of messy sugar.

What right have two
to order icing and kisses
while the rest of us
finish our greens?

By whose authority

do they lock ankles
curtained by gingham? Who pays
for this dinner? Whose
cake wants icing?

Who knew
when the reservation was placed

that two would arrive
with appetites for icing

and eyes
for the face?

Who in good faith remains
glued to whimsy

while regulars beat down the door
for a table and a plate of potatoes?

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