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Dining Alone
The fine art of dining alone
is no art at all if you
like the company, and if you
wear a favorite color and
bring along a good book --
and if the hostess knowingly
meets your eye when you say
"One"
then sashays in a black
draping garb over tights,
leading you to a corner nook
with candlelight dancing on
two smart sketches: one crab,
one dozen sea anemones.
When you dine alone smelling of
sea air and French verbena soap,
taking in the scent of culinary
promise surrounding you,
your solitude is as sweet
as the romantic love shared
at the next table, and the family
joviality ringing by the window.
There is no envy; all is well.
If you treat yourself to chef's
special entree, straying
from the beautiful confines of
the menu (and of home), a dish
so perfect arrives that — you
cannot help yourself — you
must have a picture. But the
flash is not unnoticed.
Then the waiter asks again and
again about your dining pleasure
and even the hostess stops
at your table for good measure.
You realize that they suspect
you are no ordinary diner.
So you quell all the interest,
pull back into your shell.
Returning to the fine art
of dining alone, you
break bread with yourself.
You close your eyes,
and savor the moment
when salmon and gnocchi unite,
and Jazz Sketches on Sondheim
drift beyond the warm room
into the autumn fog.
Written for MeetingTheBar: Beautiful Solitude— at dVerse Poets.
Claudia's prompt is about one of my favorite things, and,
where I could have written about times spent
in absolute solitude, a dinner alone
at the Oregon coast came to mind.
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