What shall it be;
the hors d’oevres are so
difficult;
something richly satisfying,
stilton and onion soup, thickly
clotted with croutons,
bringing one’s nose to a quivering
edge of ecstasy?
Or prawn-stuffed tomatoes,
glowing red booty-bags
drifting in pale-spiced waves of
mayonnaise and magic,
cargoed with pink dreams, folded
round a whisper of the sea;
or a melon moon-boat, sugar
frosted,
its dancing cherry nailed to the
masthead
above the bending orange sail,
skimming over the edge of
evening...
The fish course is worse;
honest trout in crumpled, brindled
shirts lie
waiting my decision,
uncomplaining at the weight of
smooth, bland almonds,
of cosy bacon curls;
the plaice have rolled aside now,
helplessly replete with gorging of
their own,
the mushrooms creamed with herbs,
with lemon.
How shall I choose;
what do I want, you want; life’s
so difficult...
Oh, not the main course now, so
soon;
I’m not ready.
The chicken pieces quiver, tremble
in their tarragon, their wine,
lure me with their naked delicacy,
like... What do you want, my love?
The tenderloin tantalises, teases
my lipping tongue,
leads me on to taste...
What shall it be?
Soon, soon there will come the
sweets,
the madness and the cream,
the heady brandy and the circling
fumes,
the strange wild fruits and
syllabubs of sin...
How shall I choose, my love?
What shall it be?
It’s not the menu that bothers me.
(November,
1987)
