I sat at the table of life. Then he 
walked by and saw me sitting there 
alone. He joined me, by impulse,
I suppose. I was pleased, for I had long
 hoped to feast with him. Here,
I said, fried chicken, glistening
outside, juicy in. I fed him
the white meat with my hands. Great 
rounded mounds of mashed potatoes, rich 
with butter and heavy cream. Smooth
pan gravy to pool on top, tender spears
of new asparagus. Crisp, tart watercress
and firm, vine-ripe tomatoes, coated with 
wine vinegar and virgin olive oil.
And afterward, dense lemon pie, topped with 
a cloud of pale meringue.

He seemed satisfied enough with my food. 
And there is no denying he was hungry— 
he ate so fast. Almost before the meal
was through, he pushed back his chair
to go. I was sad to see him leave, 
for I had thought that he might tarry 
at the table, taking just one more hot 
biscuit, one more slice of pie.

For a time I sat there, food
cooling around me, crusts and skins 
forming on its surfaces, islands of fat 
solidifying on the sauces.
Then one day he wandered by again 
and seemed surprised to see me there. 
I offered him some of my specialties: 
plump pillows of gnocchi verde, 
risotto milanese, billowy
warm foam of zabaglione.

Well, he didn’t know. He had so
many other things to do. I said, Would you like 
raw oysters, tasting of the sea,
slipping down your throat? Oozing 
Camembert and Brie? Or prosciutto e melone,
 the pink translucent ham
wrapped around chilled sweet cantaloupe? 
Porc braisé aux choux rouges?
Or lamb chops, thick ones,
rare inside, rubbed with
broken garlic cloves? Fat
heavy loaves of country bread
with fresh curls of sweating butter and,
at the end, reine de saba,
studded with coarse-crushed almonds,
slicked with a semisweet chocolate glacé?

Then he explained he didn’t really like 
full-course meals. It wasn’t that
he wasn’t hungry—he just preferred to eat 
and run, grazing at different tables. But, 
he said, as long as he was here,
he might have a nibble, just a bite
or two.

Still, I tried to tempt him with dessert, 
offering him many cunning
forms of dolci: chewy amaretti,
dead-ripe black figs napped with
double cream, gelati rough with hazelnuts, 
and bright sorbetti clogged with fruit. 
Hard little bites of chocolate truffles
with espresso, dark, silky chocolate mousse 
to melt on his tongue, tiny glasses of
 intense liqueurs. I promised him
that if he’d stay the night,
for breakfast I would give him cappuccini,
warm briosce with raspberry jam,
or scones with mountain honey and clotted 
cream, orange juice just squeezed,
late peaches, heaping bowls
of summer berries with crème fraîche. But no, 
he said, he had to go.

After that he dropped by
from time to time, and now and then
he seemed inclined to dally.
There were evenings when a steaming entree 
seemed to hold him—particularly,
as I recall, my chiles rellenos.
And I remember clearly how he lingered 
over my huevos rancheros with salsa fresca, 
not to mention the quivering flan,
warm caramel running down its sides. And 
all that time, his presence alone
was food to me: his hair the color of wheat, 
his smell of bitter fruit. Then
it was enough to have him seated at my table. 
But finally my hunger grew for more.

The table of life is long and wide,
but life itself is short.
I have learned that it is better to dine alone 
than to share your food
with a reluctant guest. And even now,
I know, somewhere outside my windows 
future guests may be passing.
Today I threw away
his spotted place card and the withered 
centerpiece, changed the linens,
polished up my pots. I’m ready for 
someone with a strong, enduring
appetite, someone who’ll stay long
at the table, who’ll reach out
and fill my plate, saying:

Bagna cauda? Pasta con funghi? Scampi 
ai spiedi? Someone who’ll pour out 
plummy Pinot Noir or steely Chardonnay 
or clear, cold Fumé Blanc until my glass
 flows over. Who’ll say, Do you want some 
more? until we fill each other with 
a sweet, deep nourishment.