for Stephen Byrne
Clear and clean of clutter, the room welcomed my wife
like a red carpet to the door of a limousine on Oscar night.
She strode in, graceful as spring sunlight gentle against
the season's first crocus, elegant as a sheet playing
matador with the wind, fragrant as a valley bursting with
jasmine and fuchsia in the morning after the rain.
I clicked “Like.”.
We sat for dinner, a careful offering of colour and
quantity, a transitory beauty crafted in artistry and effort.
The candle flickered when the plates were rested and the
shadows that they cast aligned to point to wine,
a Pinot that had travelled from the vines of Napa -
one bottle she had saved for an evening such as this.
I posted a picture online and 8 people clicked “Like.”
With a fork like a Drum Major's baton, she spoke hungrily
about what the world needs, about positive action,
the mirage of educated voters; courage, equality,
tolerance, passion; the necessity to stand up and be counted
and not just be one of a billion sedentary onlookers
for whom the planet is a hotel room in Vegas.
I agreed and clicked “Share”.
A gunshot may scatter the crows, she said, but when the
crows come back we'll see that the gun is not the answer.
We'll Thelma-and-Louise it, I urged, Bonnie-and-Clyde it,
she bettered, Sundance-and-Butch it, I proffered but she
was already leaning in for a kiss. And in the room's auburn
glow, with a satisfied stomach and a heart full of fire,
I exchanged my wife for a meme.
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