The field wraps around him
He takes in his fist the 3-winged grasses,
Filling his bag with fallen petals,
Filling his eyes.
He is welcoming the bent weed,
Tying the shoelace
No one answers his questions better
Above him, a hundred flying birds call out
At the heart of the apple
A boy filled a bottle with water.
The waiter's arms tense, but his clutch on the bottle is unmoved as he holds it before Pat as an offering, a presentation, a question. Pat swallows, taps the corners of his mouth with the restaurant's flamingo-colored cloth napkin, and glances up.
With a deft snap of the wrist, J.D. sets the cork before Pat like a dead mouse laid before the cat's master. Another smooth wrist flick and a spot of wine is passed into the glass and J.D. flicks the bottle into a twist that catches drips.
Slowly, fingers around the glass's stem, Pat lifts and swirls lightly, then downs the pink liquid in one backward knock of his head. "OK," he grunts, and swipes his hand through his mass of teased black hair.
J. D. now twists a stream of wine into Sarah's glass, again flicking, then fills Pat's glass halfway with a swoop and a settling of the bottle, label facing the couple. He smiles a wish for good appetite. And with his toweled arm folded across his tight, flat torso, he retreats into swinging white doors with the solemnity of a magnificently buttocked angel entering the shining cloud of heaven.
Pat and Sarah giggle, clink glasses, and sip.