As for the Ticket

Don’t burn the tongue,
on flavor still too hot.

Eat slowly,
savor the sustenance,
that will certainly end too soon.
The dinner is good,
the main course, half devoured,
still piping hot.

As for the ticket, no, not yet.
Keep it at bay.

The bill will come
that nobody wants to pay.

Not one to live off extended credit
or the kindness of others,
but no desire to settle up—
not now or even later.

These passionate days
steeped in desire and warmth and bliss
do not come for free.

The laughter and clinking glasses and
clanking cutlery and exciting conversations
crossing one another at a table of friends
with so much to say that half the fresh ideas
meant to enter the discussion fall
like generous crumbs for the less fortunate
scavenging the cracks between the floorboards.

The bill always comes at the end.

The thing to do is to avoid eye contact
with the waiter standing by in his black tuxedo,
lurking slyly in the shadows,
silver platter in white-gloved hand,
in search of an entry point;

not to look into the mirror at the aging stranger there
as you visit the restroom more frequently
than you used to;

not to spend too much time sharing recent
photographs of the kids and family,
only to realize that the photos you are showing
are ten, fifteen, twenty years old.

The thing to do is to pace yourself,
chew your food until the flavor is spent,
take your time, sip and savor
the wine and beer and scotch and cognac
that you once gulped
with a greedy thirst,
and don’t be afraid to add a little ice
or water if that will make the flavor last longer.

If you can choose the tastiest morsels,
the finest beverages, optimal companionship,
stretch out your servings so that
what you consume does not
outpace your hunger, does not
make you uncomfortably full,

perhaps—just perhaps—
you will make the most
of the restaurant’s operating hours
and the bill will not arrive
until you are ready to receive it.

Thanks for the Socks

Rummaging through the attic,
I came across an old picture
and remembered a thank you card
that I forgot to write.

Thank you for the socks
that you got me for Christmas,
immortalized in a photograph
collecting dust in an attic box.

I bore my soul
took the jagged shards of broken notions
from the darkest crevices of my mind,
examined them, conducted psychanalysis on myself,
and exposed my innermost despair to you.

You drove to the mall, in your sable,
parked in the garage so you
wouldn’t need to bear the snow
walking through the open doors of Lazarus.

That cozy evening beside the colorful, lit tree,
I presented you the harvest of heartache:
a book of cathartic poetry dedicated to you.

You, in turn, presented me
with a pair of socks,
a pock-marked design
with a thin red line across the toes.

I declared devotion in verse,
painted your beauty in rhyme and tempo,
alliteration and angst.

You accented the men’s hosiery
with a framed picture of you wearing them
to personalize the gift.

You commented on how much you
cherished the poetry—
a book devoted to who you were to me.

I said thanks for the socks
and the picture of you wearing them.

Half a life later,
I revisit that poetry—
cringingly sincere, earnest, naïve—

and I wonder whether you still have a copy
that you take from the shelf from time to time,
reminding you that such worship as this
once put you at its center,

or whether your copy has been discarded
like the picture of an old acquaintance
or a worn-out pair of socks.

Eric D. Goodman lives and writes in Maryland, where he’s remained sheltered in place during the pandemic and beyond, spending a portion of his hermithood writing poetry. His first book of poetry, Faraway Tables, is coming in spring 2024 from Yorkshire Press. He’s author of Wrecks and Ruins (Loyola University’s Apprentice House Press, 2022) The Color of Jadeite (Apprentice House, 2020), Setting the Family Free (Apprentice House, 2019), Womb: a novel in utero (Merge Publishing, 2017) Tracks: A Novel in Stories (Atticus Books, 2011), and Flightless Goose, (Writers Lair Books, 2008). More than a hundred short stories, articles, travel stories, and poems have been published in literary journals, magazines, and periodicals. Learn more about Eric and his writing at www.EricDGoodman.com.