Covered Dishes Part 1

Covered Dishes 1 The password is… password, shhh... Try to remember if possible, this sure-fire way of getting through the door; Entering indeed, as with all lithesome ladies, and their dithering dogs, after entreating the big dude at the entrance gate, with licorice sticks and cauliflower juice on ice, and leaning over long enough to show off the planets, those spinning orbs of a mathematical universe, now turning madly and centrifugally, sucking out the eyes of the pleading fools, dressed in rage, and wont to feel the ancient eclipses, those silent but grunting interludes unseen, all dressed in satin boredom, all flummoxed as with clowns, dressed in neon failure, who now offer smiles and winking winces, to the sad-eyed pedestrians, and the red-lipped ladies with the wide-brimmed hats, out to tease with nylon exposures, around the bleakly lighted doorways to dark entrances, without eyes to feel. You were sitting there with legs crossed, a cocktail dangling from your frozen fingertips, like a fainted ballerina in the splitting moonlight. In front of you, on the table, covered dishes covered tureens, with surprise taste delights simmering, shouting out in mute languages of the multitudes: What is under the lid of this blue dish? What is beneath the cover of this steaming tureen? I turned to see other dishes and other culinary settings, and instead, I saw you among the bon bons and the flaming surrendering soufflé. You wore that same translucent skirt with the lightning stripes and the chiffon protestations, and as you rose from your chair with howling legs, there was no hell and brimstone in what I saw. Then as with a silent hungry leopard, setting exotic eyes on my stilled soul and quivering body, you took my hand into yours, as easily as one might, and with straight-staring certitude, we politely exited from this quiet pedestrian grille, this obscure café under the yawning stars, hidden behind festooning flowers, draped on hungry trellises, for the hopelessly outraged.