She thinks she will stay here all day,
her book hidden under a nylon blend napkin.
The vat of chicken livers is hourly restored;
the iced tea mercifully unending.
There is cake. There are coconut macaroons
and a perpetual chocolate fountain.
She thinks this is enough.
Enough to still the fluttering
at the base of her tongue. Enough
to feed all Zeus’s hungry issue.
In the kitchen, Prometheus robes the bones
in glistening fat, and Midas surveys
the squash casserole, the catfish crisp
and banked in careful knolls, the yeast rolls
soft as pillows and sweet as sleep.