The Five-Star Disaster

I was trying to be the kind of man who knows

which fork to pick up and how to hold the glass.

I wore a tie that felt like a noose, I suppose,

watching the waiters in their white jackets pass.

The scallop arrived, a grey and rubbery thing,

sitting in a puddle of butter that had died.

It looked like a thumb or a discarded ring,

with yellow oil separating on the side.

My knife made a long, high squeak on the plate.

You looked at your phone and I looked at the bread.

We sat there and chewed on the weight of the date,

swallowing words that we should have just said.