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.
