Seen at Massimo's

A movie star,
well, as darn cute
as ever there was one,
with her famous boyfriend's mother,
sighing into a non-fat.
Smiling a sad, beautiful, gracious, rote smile,
wearing something.

It is overcast, she's wearing a shawl.
Seen at Massimo's: two top agents,
pissing together in the men's room
with the door
slightly ajar.

Seen at Massimo's: Mexicans

The flame kisses another butt
on the 10 east,
with the navigation system
pouting orders
and the beamer making fresh noises.

Seen at Massimo's: me mixing drinks,
me leaving, me reading the menu
and chatting up two
from Sacramento,
or St. Louis.

Massimo himself
is staring down
in black and white
from the ceiling
stirring us in his pot.
The baby is born.
The gnocchi is prepared
with spinach and riccota,
no potato, and that's different,
and that's why we can charge you
what we will.

Someone double-tipped,
someone paid for the missing
bottle of wine.
The smoky sky,
the Reisling chill
of Los Angeles
of Beverly Hills
the busboy running
to put change in your meter,
your last fifty cents
buys you an hour.

Your last fifty cents
buys you an hour to sit.
Your last meal,
was spaghetti di mais
with chicken sausages and veal.
Your last coast
was the east coast.
Your last coat
is worn.
Your last love
was a movie star.
You held her when she was cold.
Your last meeting
was operatic.
She met your mother,
you served them cafe.
Fifty cents
doesn't buy a cup of coffee.
But coffee makes you warm.

You are the grape,
and the winter which tries the grape,
and the hand which picks it,
and the feet which press it,
and the sommelier who serves it,
and the mother's lips which taste from the bottle,
and the girl who watches
bleeding internally,
and the man who clears the plates.
All this costs.
Someone eats pie.
Seen at Massimo's: corkscrews.