Spilled wine spreads to the edge of my napkin

over the course of dinner. I confess

my wife has thirteen ribs—then I open

a third bottle as we compare traumas.

The gay waiter interposes his tray

with the indifference of a Greek chorus:

“Our most popular sin is the soufflé.”

An hour later, my red napkin could pass

for a thin sheet of venison tartare.

The waiter pours two flutes of Kir Royal,

palms the bill, then impatiently stacks chairs

behind us. You lean back from the table

as if you were Isaac baring his chest

braced for a father’s judgment.