I'm now my usual self after the crushing disappointment that was the dinner.
Someone once said something about Poetry being "Passion recollected in tranquility" or something approximate to that, and thinking about it, this came:
All the savours of the world
were there
Save one
And that I most desired.
But never did it settle
Not even for an instant
On the white sterility
That was my tablecloth.
I'm going to have a word with Madame about being my muse. This could be a new beginning for me.