Calamari

Midnight and the peopled pier lights the cold shiver of the Sound we trust to deliver up delicacies, jigs probing in stiff hope through midnight waters where curiosity schools to illuminate our deceptions.

Suddenly impaled, the creatures write fear black, the spent ink of Nature’s needful poets, caught in this other world, their camouflage gone wrong misinterpreting bright intentions, all their slippery sensitivity published in a thick sloppy bucket.

But over white wine in the Italian restaurant, ink-besotted intellectuals dissect the deep rewarding circles of their arguments delivered as bite-sized morsels for exotic rubbery offeratory mastications of resilient substance, connoisseurs classifying substantial textures, the densities of salivary reasoning measured against elemental octopus, sophisticated clam and the latest, most fashionably digestible, deeply moneyed, culinary philosophers, flashing opinions like tooth jam.

At the next table, I sit waiting for someone I cannot name, someone whose talents might be at least social, if not sexual, not those of a lonely posturing scribe, someone who might sit at the same unmetaphorical table, not knowing the companion they have chosen, casting a questioning line, the hook sharp and obvious, deeply surprised when it comes back squirming with simple, delicious, unexpected delights to pass across the forbidding table’s vast, sometimes readable, welcoming ocean.