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 his gleaming sentences.

And I should mention the light

that falls through the big windows this time of the day

italicizing everything it touches ––

the plates and teapots, 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.

Ahhh.. Heres my pizza !

Nite all, nite sam

-me