Poetry Friday: The Collected Works of Susan Ramsey

To a Picky Eater at Love’s Table

This isn’t the love you sent back to the kitchen,

the one you now remember as seasoned exactly

to your taste, which you now admit you returned

because you weren’t that hungry and because

you thought the kitchen would be open all night.

And now this is set before you.  Ominous shapes          

in — is it puttanesca? Hunan? — sauce

which stings the tip of your tongue.  The smell which rises

repels, attracts — and is this pottery crude

or priceless art you’re not qualified to judge?

You miss the pretty plate, that sweet, mild meal

which never burned your lips.  I’m not saying make do.

I’m saying it’s a long time between meals out here,

and gourmets are pressing their noses to the window

for a whiff of what is cooling on your plate.

Poetry Northwest, Spring 2002