Eight for 8.00 at The Pink Geranium

  ‘How many ways do I love thee’,

springs to mind, as she wends her way

to the table...peruses the menu; 

 

love the way that stray wisp of hair

flirts with her eyelid when she tosses

her head as she laughs.

 

The way she cradles her wine-glass

in both hands as if cupping a  bird

fallen from its nest...

 

her expression when she eats her Pavlova

as if each precious mouthful

was a massive, orgasmic explosion.

 

I adore her slight lisp – the way she holds

her knife and fork – makes patterns in the air

when she speaks; it’s this and this alone

prompts me to wax lyrical.

 

The timbre of her tone – a lilting

Irish brogue, like water trickling

over stones in some far-off

Galway stream.

 

And those lips

are something else! That slight pout

as she throws my way, a ‘Come closer,

won’t you?’ glance.

 

Her serviette is where I long to be

right now...given half a chance.

 

Her slender thighs in the noble ribbing

of her velveteen tights, as straight and

as true as anything of nature’s

 

and as it flutters to the floor

I retrieve it with a flourish

and a polite, ‘May I?’

as I  delicately drape it

on her lap.

 

She smiles, presses

my hand with hers, and says,

 

“How very kind...except, we’re leaving now.

 

So here – keep the change

and give my compliments

to the chef.”