Grand Expensive Vista

As we sipped and mingled,

regaled

with oldfangled

canapés and beguiled,

or entertained at least, by gargled

oldies, I disengaged

and angled

across grass tenderly groomed,

past where electric tiki torches gleamed,

and, alone, gazed,

now truly beguiled,

at my hosts’ grand

expensive vista, mortgaged,

yes, and, yes, remortgaged.

A low gold

moon glowed

against a plush black sky gauzed,

even filigreed,

with stars. Gowned

in old-growth oaks glazed

with moonlight over their autumn gilt,

the hills glowed

in concord with the golden moon. I lingered,

glad—discomfited and glad—

at what my friends’ greed

for beauty afforded me. I argued,

self against self, what they’d gained

and lost, and me with them, entangled

as friendship entangles. I nearly groaned

aloud with want before my friend grabbed

my elbow. “Gorgeous, eh?” I grinned

and agreed,

my voice greased

with hidden envy. From behind us, grilled

sirloin, pedigreed

meat sublimating on embers, triggered

another hunger. Life was not just good,

but too good:

aged beef, aged wine after bourbon. We hungered,

and all the way back to his engorged

glass table, hunger was our guide.