A Place in Montmartre
I eat the best meal of my life
in Paris, a small bistro.
We order the flank steak —
it must be cooked rare
the owner says,
guiding us to the kitchen
to gauge a bloody slab.
Rare is best, I say.
To start, my friend
chooses crab with egg —
too rich for me, I say,
but when the owner
arrives with a steaming crock
& waits for my friend
to taste, he apologizes —
we made two, you needn’t
take it — such aroma
of butter, crab, & egg,
gold against cream
& scarlet. Let me taste,
I say & am taken.
Later our steak comes,
still bleeding, & despite
my strong intention
I eat that, too.
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