an old writer and his words

  • ON THE MENU

    The waiter we know so well tells tonight’s server that we are poets and she should ask us to order in iambic pentameter. We write him a limerick, which she delivers with a smile before returning with our wine and a pad to take our order. She seems somewhat sad when our order lacks rhythm…

    Lou Faber

  • IN SOLITARY

    A solitary lentil wrapped in its sauce mantle, having escaped the fork for the duration of the meal, stares up at me, perhaps defiantly my wife suspects it is merely bored at having been moved around so. I stare back at it in what I hope is my most threatening look as the waiter hovers…

    Lou Faber