reservations at eight
at our favorite table,
you were fashionably late,
a less than cherished fable.

you ordered the usual wine
I, a double blue label.
in our most best of times
we had feasted a very full ladle.

I persistently stare at you,
your eyes hide into the table.
I'm left with the most cruel view,
which makes this scene so able.

last night you gave your love to him,
pinning on your scarlet label.
the stinging hint of your lewd sin
is all too clear and inescapable.

what’s left is the tasteless discourse:

before you leave our table,
you will hear my terms in our divorce;
after which, I will dine alone at my table.