Salvador Dali dines alone.
Gaunt and afflicted with the weight of a thousand brushstrokes.
He speaks in the third person,
politely ordering a tapa of roasted veal with an asparagus coulis.

When it arrives, Dali studies the plump meat.
Alone on the plate,
it glistens with all the artistry the chef de cuisine can muster.
The sommelier salutes the great Dali with a Port.
It is bloody, earthy, and bold.

With delicate nibbles, Dali settles into his supper,
each bite sweetened with a swishle of Port and a sigh.
The sigh serves as a grateful prayer to the God of creation.
He lifts a cigarette and uses the candle flame to light the paper.
A heavy breath of smoke drawn in beneath his pencil-thin mustache,
a sketch of style,
a scribble of rebellion.

In the delight of that toxic inhalation, a thought spawns from the desert of Dali’s mind.
Images sprouting from the cracked surrealist dirt.
A melting clock.
The absence of time.
The absence of absence.

Dali exhales the image into the world.
He brushes off baguette crumbdust from the butcher paper tablecloth with the inky tip of his finger.

One last bite
One last sip
One last smoke

to honor all the melting still to come.

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Jeremy Stelzner is an author, poet, and educator from Silver Spring, MD