On a private tour we’re shown through
A shiny kitchen, then down a dingy hallway
To a wide pantry. There’s no plaque,
No reminder that Robert Kennedy bled out
On that floor. Assassinated.
Subdued, we retreat to the garden bistro,
Order icy martinis, a tray of briney oysters.
A squeeze of lemon, then a bite to release
That coppery metalic taste, and they slide
Down our throats, like soft bullets.
