Dinner with Strangers and the Old Choko

We dined, that dinner,
on onomatopoeia soup
sweepstakes with gravitas
gamuts of carpathians
sautéed appalachians
fricasseed aspirings
currant fool and sleaze.

The tabletalk — delicious!
heady splenetic methelglyn
barnacle-fed blue comfits
shocklit cake and feacle tart,
apoplectic mead.

A gong, those houri'd hours
of pipes and pans — anon now
as who is you.
The question is:
to me, to you, to meet you,
the plural and the singular —
Friends for a lifetime? once in a lifetime?
Not could we, but should we
break meat at table anniversaring?
Well, I will chance to greet you
dressed for anniversaring,
meet you for the gamuts and onomatopoeia soup,
for tabletalk and catchup.

Let's meet up in the middle of the
corner of the street.
Let's meet on a night like this one,
with darkness as unplumbable
as our deepest friendship,
when black as eye's pupil
the moon drowns
deep as murder in the marshes of the fen.

Let's meet up, my festal friends
deliciously anticipant,
I'll meet you
precisely
at half past when.