New World Table

Had lunch with an old friend today.
The tiny café table didn’t have enough room
to spread out thirty years, but
art, poetry and The Isle of Skye
fit nicely between her plate
of falafel and my gyro sandwich.
She’s going to buy a house,
and live in a town named
for an Indian chief, or his wife,
pronounced “seh-noy” not “seh-noy-yuh”
as outsider-eyes would fool one into thinking.
I’m going to buy a boat,
and sail from “bis-troh” to “peet-suh-ree-uh”
in search of a table
large enough for a long visit.