Louis Finds Spring


Chez Pepe's served food as art,
delicate servings of salmon smoked
over a woodfire, sprigs of fresh herbs
arranged in a pinwheel, patrons dressed
for a night on the town, servers were well versed,

Fine wine, the correct temperature, a subtle nose,
attention to every detail.

Centerpieces of fresh orchids, a hue of black, purple,
white, an aromatic accompaniment to the ambience of the meal,

Louis was the man unseen by these connoisseurs,
though his passion for the finer accouterments, was the common
bond that bridged the deep societal gulf between the patrons
and the invisible people like himself,

He had carefully gathered the items for his evening repast
from the dumpster behind Chez Pepe's: chipped crystal goblet, cracked china,
and a bottle of red, Rothschild's 1959- no more than two glasses gone-,
pieces of salmon, wilted herbs, the orchids,

Louis smoothed the crinkled paper over his dining room table,
just down the wall from the dumpster, set the crystal and china
in proper order, arranged the salmon and herbs,
stepped back to admire his good fortune

before unveiling his piece de resistance:
he reached beneath the cardboard table for the blue vase,
As he arranged the orchids, their hues still vibrant, their aromatic

scent filled his senses,

Spring, ah, Louis, thought, was the best time of year.

© 2008 Paul Goldman

THE MEEK SHALL INHERIT

Louis drained the last drop

of brackish black liquid,

styrofoam particles sticking

to the bottom of the white cup,

as the speaker praised on:

brothers and sisters

let us not forget to pray

for those less fortunate ones,

those whose Christmas this year

will not mirror

the blessings we all have

here in this house,

His house.

Amen.

Before stepping back outside

into sheets of sleet,

Louis tied tattered ribbon

around the toes of his worn-out boots,

a fanciful attempt to keep

frostbite at bay.

Le Riche Cochon nestled aglitter

at River’s Edge before him,

a genteel temptress

whose whispered promise

whetted many a polished palate—

a siren of pristine cuisine

to the upper crust.

As Christmas Eve entered into

its slow waltz toward morning,

Louis strolled around back

of the aromatic seductress

to accept his humble gifts—

not ones of frankincense and myrrh,

but of practical things.

Beneath an overhang, out of the wind,

with much care and grace,

Louis set his holiday table:

a fine centerpiece of evergreen

with lace and silver

dripping from crisp green branches,

candles aglow nestled

in chipped crystal holders,

Limoges place settings

with barely a hairline crack,

gilded scratched goblets

fit for the remainder

of the 1959 Chateau Lafite Rothschild.

Louis smiled.

The Mission’s prayer

had been answered.

This was going to be

a grand holiday.

Just grand.

©--Paul Goldman 2008