Bill of Fare

Bill of Fare

by Peter Heide

Sunshine through newly squeegeed windows,
Clean, with one viscous trailing line
Refracting beams of rainbow hue,
A Pollyanna prism,
Over tabletops with crystal glass and china cups
Waiting service for those who would be served,
Those patrons of good and plenty.



With gracious smiles and deferential patience,
Orders are taken and commuted to
The working kitchen staff
Who translate palatal whims
Into cuisine art
And mass consumption.



In this ordered and orderly world
Of fulfilled demands and imaginings,
There is no room or tolerance for those who
Impede the efficiency of command
And service at the table.



With visceral non-compliance,
Those who cannot partake or witness
The service and fine linen
Hide under damask cloth.



There resides the chipped,
The cracked, the unmatched pattern,
The three-tined fork of otherness.



In the underbelly is the distasteful gorge of foreign fare,
Eschewed, chewed gum of disability under the table.



“Did you save room for dessert?”