On empty stomachs we stroll through streets

With desire to be sat down

At tables with sparkling water and menus bathed in genuine leather

Desire to be greeted as Sir and Ma’am

Unlike the he and she in allusions of contempt

Or accusation

The waiters are paid to be patient

But they aren’t always and reasonably

So we scroll through menus, with anxious fingers

Bare, ashamed, and stripped of diamond rings

The waitress hums a song, and we assume it’s about us

Tempted by dishes with fancier names

But the vulgar flavor of affectation

We’ve bad taste anyway

Select from the cardboard a dish to impress the chef

Wait for the hefty garnish, and the sourdough on which they lay

Their perfectly poached eggs

Mastered by sixty­three degrees

For our liking

It does not concern the chef as much as it concerns

No one in actuality

Serves the kingfish as they do so disgracefully

The pink flesh we mistook for radish but whose smell betrayed

The notorious

Seafood fragrance

Squirt a squid’s ink on some pasta and call it class

Scoop some caviar and say et cetera

We’re more concerned about the nicknames the waiters bless us with

Behind our backs

We can hear them snickering

Our nerves are boiling and our faces a red radius of beaming

Embarrassment

It ruins the appetite

To starve in loops of repetition

So home is on the agenda again

To serve something fishy regardless