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.