Old Man Eating Alone in a Chinese Restaurant I am glad I resisted the temptation, if it was a temptation when I was young, to write a poem about an old man eating alone at a corner table in a Chinese restaurant. I would have gotten it all wrong thinking: the poor bastard, not a friend in the world and with only a book for a companion. He'll probably pay the bill out of a change purse. So glad I waited all these decades to record how hot and sour the hot and sour soup is here at Chang's this afternoon and how cold the Chinese beer in a frosted glass. And my book-José Saramago's Blindness as it turns out-is so absorbing that I look up from its escalating horrors only when I am stunned by one of its arresting sentences. And I should mention the light which falls through the big windows this time of day italicizing everything it touches-the plates and tea pots, the immaculate tablecloths, as well as the soft brown hair of the waitress in the white blouse and short black skirt, the one who is smiling now as she bears a cup of rice and shredded beef with garlic to my favorite table in the corner.
( Billy Collins )
[ Aimless Love: New and Selected ]
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