The Restaurant
the enso
"Pie" by Mark Hiebert
the poem
Sometimes, more of the same
confirms you are alive. You can count
on ordering eggplant parmigiana
and a slice of cherry pie
every Sunday for eight years.
Nothing changes.
The marinara and the mozzarella,
the accompanying chianti and cappuccino,
remain intact, replicated
in exact detail. As expected,
the sauce burns the roof of your mouth
while errant strings of cheese stick to your chin.
Yes, the waiters turn over and the prices
teeter with each market fluctuation, but this dish
is your anchor, keeping you
in one place, still. This is how it must be:
your fork cutting the crisp crust,
spoon filled with frothy steamed milk,
a glass of water waiting.
Thursday, 30. December 2010 20:30
I noticed you mean “fork” not “folk?”
I liked the concept of regular food/resteraunt. I’m sorry, I’m at Kathy’s and watching cnn and trying to remember poem. I think I’m like dad in terms of remembering what just happened.
Friday, 31. December 2010 9:29
You are correct – I meant “fork”. Thanks for catching that. And thanks for the feedback! I was trying to capture how simple “rituals” provide meaning & comfort in our lives.