The Water Table

Imagine sitting down to dine,
the table edge lapping
at, well, your lap,
tucking the damp napkin
of the river bank
beneath your chin.
A starter, something light
and insubstantial to tease
the palate
a crisp, late Autumn mist
perhaps
that lingers like a cloud
at the roof of the mouth.
Followed by a hot
bowl of spicy steam
and then a dessert of ice
shaved from winter ponds.
No need to loosen a notch
on the belt,
but later a longing in the night,
an undercurrent from the bathroom,
would tug you
feet first
from liquid dreams.