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.