What Do You Call This Place

where the leavings of dinner linger
wait in abundance, present opportunities
for the canine and simian residents?
What do you call this place where grapes
and peaches, berries and beef heap
near the boiled body of a lobster
tipped in tandem to the excess of the evening?
What do you call this place where a surf
and turf extravaganza is served with Chianti
as a lemon peel hangs with indifference?

Perhaps you call this place
a room of intemperance where privilege
was withdrawn from a cascade of cash
or a catalogue of credit where the line items
trip into an inky pool, a blur of debt