in my reservoir of preparatory dread,
i chose not to see. so intent on
retention and self-preservation,
no thought even to gorgeous words.
(get it down, boy.)
this time, flight to the third floor would be out of the question.
(the moment of inscription is upon you. don't look around.)
only now can i glimpse
the tables laden with grandeur
and the assembled famished for your genius.
even flush with my small escape and the
torpor derived from oblivious strangers,
i can still hurry down,
for once clear of my task
to the kitchen side/to the women's section,
to take your hands in mine, to whisper:
all this you have orchestrated.
here, by the table of your peers,
i bow in honor of this intricate work
and in thanks for this lavish welcome