Here, There
“A real recipe only has a single life…”
                                     -a stranger

At dinner, alone
now, a table for four
away from the windows
but close enough
to see myself. Used
to be a small round
off to one side,
a pair of chairs—
every conversation took
on the face of a clock.

The waitress wonders
if anyone will be joining me
and I smile, tell her
I’m not sure—ask her
to bring something
for two.

All my life
evenings have been taking
the shape of a bar stool,
moving toward the talk
of light fare. However,
in the window
something’s still
the same—the world
passes through me
like a recipe in pencil,
the dust of an erasure
here, there.

- George Bishop