we dine at times
in orchid splendor
with pheasant under glass
fine china
lace
a rare aged wine
and whisper in candlelight
we dine at times
on dandelion picnics
an indian blanket on the grass
radio crooning love songs
to beer and paper plates
playing ‘loves me-loves me not’ in the stars
we dine at last and after either
in blood-red roses style
the props are gone
not needed now
we feast upon each other
till sleep excuses us from the table
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