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The House After the Restaurant

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After the staccato knife-and-fork rattle,

the wailing babies, the waiters yelling

birthday songs (four tonight), the sour

country music, and the general thunderstorm din

of hungry people shouting over each other

over blackened steaks and blooming potatoes,

our house, darkened by the cool summer night,

sounds only of your small bare feet

on creaking hardwood, quiet as a cat,

and the soft creak of leather heels

held like a briar bouquet at your wrist.

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