We celebrate his birthday
At the little French bistro,
A serendipitous find,
Its patio overlooking a pond.
A table for two with pretty white linen,
Under the canopy of a tree,
Branches blinking with twinkly lights.

Soft butter melts
Into light and airy holes
Of the fresh baked baguette.
Flown in from New Jersey,
The head waiter says, nodding to the artisan bread.
Refined and attentive, he guides us through
The distinctive, delectable menu.

Mussels in saffron,
Perfectly seasoned steak,
Pommes frites served in a paper cone,
Like they do in Paris.
Hearts of romaine and palm, shaved fennel,
Roasted beets, poached pears
In a lemon vinaigrette.

The chilled Pinot Grigio loosens our tongues,
Lively conversation and laughter
Unearthing past memories
Like when we were young
And life was unfolding
With untold possibilities
And a limitless, painless sky.

Such moments are fleeting,
Like a monarch dancing on zinnia blooms.
Not to be captured but briefly savored. But still…
Something special, I promise.
A girls’ lunch out. Just you and me.
She does her hair, dresses up,
Wears the sandals that match but hurt her feet.

We narrow our choices before we arrive:
Almond crusted flounder, a creamy polenta,
Roast duck nesting on sweet saffron rice.
Tantalizing options now out of reach,
The oven is broken, the menu replaced
With just five or six choices
Typed up on a single white sheet.

Alone on the patio at the table for two
We fill up on the artisan bread
And sip on cold water till the waiter returns
Balancing salmon rillette, beautifully plated,
But overly spiced for her elderly tongue.
And a plain romaine salad, sadly uninspired
Minus the fennel, poached pears, and roasted red beets.

Too close to the pond after a rain,
We silently swat flies and a tenacious mosquito
Hovering over our half-eaten dishes.
Then stung and defeated, we quickly pay
And make our escape
From under the tree with the twinkly lights
And into the sweltering sun.