The Scarlet Macaw sways above me
its dramatic shadow catches my eye.
Eyes, in turn, are all on this festive bird,
mine, and larger-than-life ones
that stare out, unblinkingly.
I'm not quite sure what I stumbled into
off the streets of Washington, D.C.,
but I know that the scents wafting
from the tables that surround me
are making me hungry.
"We can't seat you until 8:30 —
Unless you sit on the Patio."
It's just past six, so we nod,
"Yes, yes, please,"
and wait for our server to
guide us through the busy venue.
The restaurant is a riot
of colors, shapes, textures, as if
Main Character Energy was a place.
Suede-covered menus,
velvet swivel stools,
brass bands,
checker-striped wicker benches.
We take our seats,
already lost in the wilderness
of this restaurateur's creation.
They had us at the scarlet macaws.
Anything yet to come
will be the Chamoy on top.
