One Two One

We park and she says nothing; it’s getting dark.

I follow in her hunting, block after block,

down one street, up one, and back the other way.

We are the flesh and blood premonitory

videogame dream, Pac-Man and Lady. Pac-Lady

I would have wondered, where are you leading me?

Where are the dots?  I’m hungry now.

She stops, points up to a sign above us,

a spotlight shining on it, whispers Le Festival

in my ear, and I will dream all night in French.

For just now we will dine on French food.

She says, I saw this place on the drive in.

The waiter asks, Will it be soup or salad?

She asks me, Can I afford both?

Mais oui, I say smiling, Yes, of course, we can.

Even if I can’t, because love is stupid,

so blind it ends this time in Chicago

as we walk off a too heavy meal

before seeing A Chorus Line, and after

I drive back alone to Madison at midnight

knock out by myself, dream fitfully tossing

over the high cost for two starters, la soupe

et le salade aussi, et plus cher pour moi,

especially when I dine all by myself

at a table meant for two, once again.

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