who waits for you across a table, hands at his own throat,

who shook your hand, once, threw in a "Nice to meet you,"

who couldn't speak to you, not now, not even if he wanted to,

who folds in your embrace & spits it up, spits it all up,

who leaves you with a partially masticated piece of fowl and the
restaurant's fading applause,

who, back at his plate, laughs and carries on like nothing happened
between you -- no, nothing at all,

who leans to his left to whisper in the ear of the prime, the perfect choice
seated to his right,

who shakes your hand, "Good night," assures you "We'll do lunch
sometime,"

who, while he choked, had eyes that teared and shined like the hero's
medal you'd hoped he'd hang about your neck.