“Chart House at Monterey”

The cheapest pinot
noir
is uncorked.
The cork is
not cork but
presented as
cork. It is in
fact
a synthetic wine
closure,
making
the uncorking
an unclosuring.

I sit by a window.
Beneath me,
the
surf swirls as
the sun sets
and fog rolls in,
masking the
Seaside lights
across the bay
of Monterey.

Three glasses deep,
I see the ocean
is nothing more
than a glorified
lava lamp,
whirling,
swirling,
white foam
over the blackness
of
sinking seashores.

Dinner arrives
and a lemon wedge
compliments it all.
I squirt lemon
over my swordfish.
I squirt lemon
over the crab
covering my swordfish.
I squirt lemon
over the fried rice,
piled
beside my swordfish.
I squirt lemon
over my dinner roll.
and
into my water glass.
I squirt lemon
into my eye,
onto my shirt,
and onto the floor.
I squirt lemon
until
I am sucking pulp
from the rind
and smiling wide
at my waitress
giving me her best
side eye.

I am quite happy and
quite drunk
when the bill arrives.
A fog horn blows
in the distance.
Life seems good
when I walk out
the dual doors
of Chart House,
stumbling back
to my
parking ticket.

narrative poem written on 03-07-2014 by: on mattkane.com
view image of poem

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