Flowers on the Tray

A flower on the tray.
China. Crystal. Far finer
than you are accustomed to.
Not just the accouterments,
nice as they are,
but the attention,
the mattering, the moment where,
if only for a time,
you are no longer invisible.

About this poem

About dining out. About wanting to matter. Probably about something else as well, but my brain is a little foggy this morning.

Another cup of coffee!

Tom