Today Peter turned seventy-nine.

We celebrated with a museum and lunch.

The waiter offered a pale ale called

Zombie Dust, and Peter, a Stella fan,

accepted it in an adventurous moment.

 

This is a shirtsleeve joint with patched

plastic booths, minimal lighting, and

a long bar on one side. He orders

leg of lamb, I the chicken pot pie,

both specials on the laminated menu.

 

We eat quietly, thinking of the years,

of the foam on the beer glass,

the flakiness of short pastry, the lamb au jus,

the hurricane on the tv over the bar,

the hum of humanity around us,

 

the skyscrapers’ long shadows

disappearing on the noon pavement.