We occasionally eat out

at ethnic restaurants.

We chew among paper lanterns

and a pond with lily pads

and floating golden koi.

We sip between a framed print of Venice

and a mural of Vatican City.

Knife cuts gently

to the flow of Debussy

and walls painted Marseille pink.

Fork jabs madly to Mariachi music

and bobbing skeleton heads

from the Day of the Dead.

But mostly we eat at the kitchen table.

I’m reading the newspaper.

Your head’s in a book.

The atmosphere, the décor,

reflect that un-fabled anywhere USA.

No China, no Italy, no France, no Mexico.

Yes. we’ve gone places we’ve never been.

But, from the look of us, you’d never know that.