red sauce

you are dressed
nicely in a crisp
white shirt, a pair
of jeans, black shoes
and socks, shaved
and trimmed, showered
and dabbed with
just the slightest
hint of cologne,
sipping a gin and
tonic at the table,
with wine on the way,
and one in her hand
across from you and as
you articulate your
world views on
literature and art,
sharing your opinions
of the world at large
with her, who works
at the white house,
you spin your pasta
on a fork into a
spoon and don't even
see the red sauce
splatter like fireworks
across the white
broad space of your
once clean shirt.