Find some sense.
Arrange your fingers and forks
Along napkin edges. Press.
Show patience for the parade beneath your nose.
Lift your glass through which we
Sideways glance.
(that drop of wine in your smile
won't get wasted)
My fingers move along the plate,
Ringing the gold-banded China.
Real rings of breeding.
We often dine with these relics around the table.
Our thoughts become palatable.
Our lowered nods cut the silence.
To our right sits the fool, the touchy
Feely kind.
Talk, like run-off splashes to rinse
Such foolish gesticulations.
(her glass spills, blotting the cloth)
I heard a lack of oxygen at birth was the downfall.
Never to recover, never to know, never an option.
Bliss and kiss of ignorance.
The seed of such recklessness
Sits, and drips on her China plate.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem