Lunchtime stories

Luncheon was served on round tables
With polished cutlery firmly esconced in
Starched napkins, warm and flaky.
When she started to eat her soup
She found two stories floating in the cream
Croutons of a melted past, downy.

She lifted them to her lips
Noth together on one large soup spoon
They dangled at the egde of her -
Pink lips, like petals of a morning dew stained
Rose, in full lustful bloom.

She strongly told them to keep quiet
But stories rarely know silence,
People all around her ate. Clinking and clanking
Tinkling and tankling, mimicking falling
Jewels on clean bone china bowls.

Stories, as they were, prevented her from
Savouring the presence of the soup.
An unseen tear drop met an unspent smile
Somewhere near the chin, exchanged pleasantries
And disappeared into an essence.

She forced the spoon into her mouth
Chewed the croutons and swallowed.
They tasted slightly bitter, like malt of a rare scotch.
Stories are delicious, smelling of a decadence of an
Alluvial mind on which harvets are all done.