It would be overpriced but for the walls of glass,
where you can strain for hours, swallowed by each
strange, disconnected glow, full of untold stories
and unsolved mysteries that keep to themselves,
but you know they are out there, lingering on the edge
of the bright shadows, slipping by the electrified
tea lights, twinkling beneath the gold bars,
stacked high so as to cause all the world to salivate.
Those walls are cold, but there is no reason to turn.
Two-for-one lobster in a sugary soup
can only be pitched so many times, and space
is better served enjoyed from a distance
than walking around a pointless pen,
set down for no reason other than to jack
the price for those beasts that like to stretch their legs,
taking proud mementos of a few feet of cream carpeting.
Yam fries are the highlight in here, but they are wasted,
consumed with the overzealous lemongrass chicken
ciabatta, and artisan cheeses, served with sundried olive
tapenade, delicately presented on a block of cedar.
All that is left is a smear of aioli, a half-glass
of melted ice, and grains of salt on the bed-sheet.
Through the clearing fog a horn blows – more are coming,
together, sharing stories, as they explore beyond the glow.