When Dad was on the road alone
And dined, alone, at night,
He wanted everything to be
Not passable, but right:
“A perfect baked potato
Demands the utmost care.
The only way to order steak
Is medium, not rare.”
When I was ten, I told myself:
How lucky to be grown,
To eat at fancy restaurants,
To do things on your own.
I sip my lukewarm Perrier,
A Trollope close to hand.
The waitress looks exactly like
That blonde in Freshman Band.
She smiles and serves the second course.
(Perhaps there’s too much sage?)
Suppressing shades of teenage lust,
I sigh and turn the page.
The rain descends, the Muzak purrs,
I chew my veal and think:
Just one more night and I’ll be home.
“Miss? Bring another drink.”