He held a tray piled high with isms.
She watched him intently
mesmerized by his dark eyes,
turning away only to mash the bread
of her butterfly wing sandwich
smeared with mayonnaise of crushed pearls.
Hearing a crash, she returned her attention.
She watched as the isms shattered on the ground,
leaving only surrealism, minimalism, and postmodernism intact.
The waiter pranced around
enjoying the lighter load
cutting his trouser leg on a jagged bit of traditionalism,
nearly tearing his flesh.
Smiling--he continued handing out his hors d'oeuvres.