The diners have all fled the scene. They have survived
with their hides intact, and now the flames are eating
everything in sight: the crisp white linens, the black and red
carpets that made the floor seem deeper, somehow
connected with, somehow supported by, the belly
of the earth. And the high white ceiling opposite,
the sky inside, is blackened now and will collapse
at any moment. The fire teeth are gnawing
through the beams. The wiring snaps like sinews.
Soon the whole place will be swallowed, and yet,
in the kitchen, there is a chef who will not leave.
He’s still singing his worksong, still preparing your feast.