Feast

You invite me out to lunch
so I wear the kind of trousers
fit for an evening guest at a wedding.

We meet in the café,
the one with carpet like seats
on a school bus and ceiling lights
like cat’s eyes on a motorway
connecting north and south.

Your cheeks are lobsters,
the heels on your shoes tap
like a puppy running on vinyl flooring.

I can’t remember what language I speak.

You come here all the time,
people greet you like you are in a sitcom.
Your skin fizzes as if it can’t believe
it gets to live on you. My appetite
is ready for a long life. You recommend
the mozzarella and pesto panini.