Amore made a pizza
for supper,
tonight at work,
with shrimp, greying scallops
and awkward calamari
which, I've learned,
is the fancy name for squid
Ferris wouldn't eat it:
he doesn't like
the floating things of blue sea,
but he liked the darkening espresso
I gave him, with a squall of sugar
and a thin spoon
it became eleven o'clock, time
to step inside rented, insipid walls,
wash sullen dishes,
listen to Pat Metheny,
and pull the hemoglobic bottle
of gato negro cabernet-sauvignion
out of my chronic cupboard
my corkscrew is black
my lungs are
and my heart is,
but my wine is red
and in a biblical glass,
this is all that matters tonight
Adding your comment:
I'll have to do that more often
