There is a mushroom on the coaster
and there is a hedgehog next to the mushroom
on the coaster,
and the hedgehog is happy;
I know because he is smiling.
And on the mushroom on the coaster
there is a slice of mushroom
that dropped from the pizza-cutter
as you reached across the table.
My wine glass is on a paper napkin
at the edge of my plate
on your white lace cloth,
and you tell me the hedgehog does not have fleas;
no, not the happy hedghog on the coaster,
but the one you have trained to walk around the table
with the menu in its quills.
I see we have a choice for sweet:
creme brulee, chocolate truffles, or plum pie.
I make my choice, and
the hedgehog snuffles off to the kitchen,
nosing its way for dessert.