Dinner at Midnight

He asked me if I’d love before

so stirring stew beneath my nose,

I pondered wandered through

evicted rooms and ghosts of smoke.

Thinking...fanatic certainty at one time.

Perhaps several. Twice? Once?

Or maybe just infatuated

with lust, or a crush, flings and flirts

fumbling baubles, dangling buttons

kisses that lose luster

over measured stanzas they muster.

The curry brew wretched,

an odious blur to my sense

as the spoon kept turning

looking for answers at the ocean's floor.

And in the silver ashes,

a few vague candidates appear,
faded from an inferno
Who I could have, would have...

had the timing, reason and season

been in alignment with my horoscope

with my work schedule

with my location or vocation and

other...others, I looked at his inquiry.

with sad and tired eyes. 

Here we sit at this vector in time

sharing food. Laughing, smiling, entangled hands

underneath the tablecloth

along with melancholia and

history’s fumbling fingers

dancing on my knee. 

Have I ever loved really meant

do I love you now?

...

No. Not in the least. 

And you do not love me,

which is what makes dinner

so nice and frivolous,

which is what makes my stew

so cold and noxious.

which is what makes my heart

so still.

which is what makes this affair

like a bookmark: holding a place

in between the pages.

Have I ever loved meant

did I love you then?

I’d be lying if I said yes.

With sorrowful eyes I glanced

across the table and squeezed

his hand. 

Have I ever loved meant

would I love again?

…

I am...

turning the stew again and again.

raising up a rolling red mist

as the spoon turns again and again,

fanning the vermillion clouds

veiling my smirking lips,

turning a dark night into a scarlet noon

I nod slowly as I stare at a horizon

turning again and again, again and again,

again and again.