Thursday, 7 September 2017

A poem by R. A. Allen

Fine Dine

While trying to decide
between the scallops Veronique
and the roasted rack of lamb
he notices that a nearby
two-top accommodates
a fashionable couple, and
from its angle of repose
atop her waxed-leather
miniskirt, a satin napkin
embarks on a furtive escape, slipping
like the subduction of tectonic plates
like the silence of Death Valley
like a nitro-burning funny car
like The Marriage of Figaro
like the second law of thermodynamics
like a hallucination born of too much dining alone.

R. A. Allen's poetry has appeared in the New York Quarterly, The Hollins Critic, Night Train, RHINO Poetry, Word Riot, Amuse-Bouche, The Recusant, and elsewhere. He has one Pushcart nomination for poetry and one Best of the Web nomination for fiction. He lives in Memphis, where he waits for that other shoe. More at

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