Swivel-back chairs

firmly placed on the

outside veranda that hosts

the succulent bon-bon elegance

of le beurre et espresso

Eagerly awaiting the full bloom

of the half-snipped rose resting

beside the floating candle

matching each beret on top the

skull that thinks itself more

narcissistic than the wine selected

as the choice of the day

by the waiter of the day

who waits until each chair is ready

for egotistical yet maniacal love to

be made

to them

with only a teetered nod and a

grimace of superiority

and a Freudian comparison of the

menu to his true essence

knowing he alone is the reason

 the swivel-backs stay in season