The dirty sunlight in the clerestory <br />windows of our faux-Parisian lair <br />lends a streaky, half-forgiving glow <br />to yet another summit with no purpose: <br />duck and iron Pinot Noir and double <br />decaf espresso, sheer necessities <br />for urban inmates who still keep the faith <br />with a wan cerise velvet banquette <br />and eye-level mirror lit with faces <br />a John-the-Baptist puritan might judge <br />corrupt with too much liquid happiness. <br />But it is happiness <br />to lounge in semi-silence while the day <br />downshifts and natter on about the shit <br />that passes for Shinola but we know <br />is only sauce for the gander. <br />It’s not that we’re against the war, <br />we’re against them: the boobs, the pimps, <br />the Know-It-Alls, the True Believers—everyone <br />who isn’t here awash in downtown gold <br />inhaling the exhaust of Burgundy . . . <br />Loafing, gloating, having it our way <br />Friday afternoon at Montrachet.<br /><br />Jonathan Galassi<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lunch-poem-for-f-s/
