A crisp edge on my plate

At Le Quartier. I’m

Reminded of the

Saline oysters which

Hemingway consumed

And then described. Perhaps

It is less the food than

A feeling of timeless

Observance. A table,

A chair, sustenance and

Pleasure. If the day is

Cloudless, fine, but with

A few clouds all the

Better. In fall a breeze,

And leaves the same color

As my pastry and in the

Evening, my wine. With

My thumb and forefinger

I take apart my meal,

Linger. It occurs to me

That this must mean time is

Passing. The writer’s food

And drink, whose sweat runs

Down the stem and shadows

The tablecloth, is a

Subject meant to still

The moment, create an

Enriched pattern out of

A winding clock face

And fortify the hope

That our home, our time

Is where we are and what

We have in front of us.