carpe diem
by richibi
_______
we were having dinner at an upscale
downtown restaurant, I was having
as appetizer wild prawns grilled on
a branch of rosemary with chickpeas,
all illuminated with a filigree of tahini,
as a main course a surf and turf of
crisp pork belly and wild Pacific
octopus with a square of grilled
polenta with again rosemary, Vickie,
a green salad with burrata, a cheese
she touted enthusiastically, to start,
then the same semolina gnocchi
with wild mushrooms and pecorino
my mother was having, as an entree,
though Mom’d had a duck and chicken
liver pâté with rhubarb and orange
mâche salad as an opener
after which we all enjoyed a blackcurrant
curd for dessert, with burnt meringue
over a lemon and orange glaze
Vickie had had a difficult morning,
you need a foam roller, I repeated,
a cylinder I use to relax, and which
I’ve been recommending to all and
sundry for some weeks
how do you feel now, I asked, as I
sipped a fine Platinum Chardonnay
having nothing other than water for
a tetchy stomach, she complained,
despite my several oenophilic, which
is to say, wine-loving, exhortations,
even having her smell the clean,
crystalline aromas of my wine
sitting here, on this outdoor veranda,
in this company, among these glittering
wares, I elaborated
she toyed distractedly with her pasta
out of ten, I said, where ten is fabulous,
a word I usually avoid, but which often
seems especially appropriate, what
would you score
seven, she retorted, which I thought
acceptable
you, Mom, I asked, to which without
batting an eyelash she replied, ten,
teaching us both, Vickie and I,
thereby, inadvertently, a lesson
I should’ve expected that, I said back,
you’re always a ten, I would’ve said
seven, I declared, when not a five
though sometimes I’ll admit to a
transcendental eleven, I had to
add, when all of my stars fall right
later we each walked homewards
to our separate domiciles, stars
were speckling, not, maybe,
fortuitously, I noted, an unfettered
night sky
Richard
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