Three of them cavort in the back seat
of a periwinkle stretch limo.
I am captivated by their sirens.
We stop for dinner and drinks
with cute little paper umbrellas
at a fancy restaurant with a French-sounding name.
The cute little paper umbrellas
keep opening and closing.
I am dizzy with delight.
We are shown to an intimate table
with intimate chairs by an intimate window
overlooking a choppy sea.
Our waiter brings us the house specialty.
We slather it with A1,
to the dismay of the animal rightists seated to our left.
A violist moves us with a little known etude
by the reclusive Sainte Colombe.
We tip her to the tune of twenty percent.
She sees our twenty and raises it twenty,
setting off a hostile musical takeover.
Our talk turns to lust and skin cream.
A cargo ship in distress
in the choppy sea below our intimate window
diverts our attention.
Lifeboats are commandeered.
For a while, it is touch and go.
The dinner parties play touch football
to amuse themselves.
The Donner Party eventually wins,
devouring the opposing team.
The ship's survivors are ushered into the restaurant
by waiters in waders
and taken to a large banquet hall.
The tables are turned,
unfolded,
and covered with leftover birthday wrap.
