Friday, November 25, 2016

Il Toscano

The Douglaston rabble
is old and loud;
they shout at the waiter
by name.

The heat flushes us;
we stay stoic and proud.
We look the part,
but can’t act the same.

We pay our bill,
savor the coffee
and the fact
we have souls.

We draw our power
from the star-splattered night;
we soar above these petty lords
and their reign over dinner chairs.

We dip
our coffee spoons
in the soft flank
of the ice cream.

Tip well
and glide through
the dining rooms
and away;
running headstrong
into the winter night
and greater magic
to come.

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