Champagne

by Farrah Sarafa | 2009

An excellent, needed evening
began with my working in Soho,
ended with chocolate raspberry song.

You'd been calling me all these days,
but I've been too selfish to give praise
to the company of another man

much older and probably set in his ways.
The other hurt me-he slapped, spit, and swore;
called me even again after a promise of no more,

but good time-fast talk and energizing words
with you tonight replaced these sores
with truth-humor, clean idea and prose.

Jacques—French-Arab bistro met our rows
of conversation and getting to know
eachother. On Nolita terrace this cool,

late evening I paused so many times
to feel content; to say I liked you.
Sicilian-Irish Catholic, older man,

not too poor or demanding-savors
each next «more» of the bite
of Mussels Provencal and onion-

basil tomato-milk soup, Rhone wine
met our glory and moved these tongues
to loop. Gently in the mist of beautiful

French male waiters, «les frites»
caught my eye earliest on and caused
the kiss to end in feathers. Light, bristly

pear juices echoed an earlier song,
while Ghazzali's desperate gut prong
from last night suppressed my

anxious appetite to sex. Conde's
sweet compliment from two night's
before and other's I'd met this crisp

day- telephone song with my Beatrice
and my brother's upcoming stay—
each fed, the well, my river, my play;

each thread this patch-worked day
into series of poetic remembering
that's helped to heal death's Birthday.

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