What I Forgot to Say

What I forgot to say –

(while he ranged with anxious shadows over
his uncertainties – his sharp concerns about what
turns to take to renovate his days – and briefly
boiled a pot of capellini to al dente rightness –
strained it, dressed it with a whisked-together sauce

of lemons, freshly squeezed; and grated Parmegiano –
ah! Reggiano! – cheese; and blushing virgin
Grecian olive oil; cracked black pepper, and a toss
of preternaturally fragrant basil – and kept speaking
as he shredded tender lettuce that may well have

tumbled from Olympus – threw it in a bowl with
an unconsciously-whipped tart effusion
of a perfect vinaigrette – artless as a Tuscan kiss –
all rendered with adept and certain fingers – faint
aromas lingering around us like a Haydn minuet)

– was there was nothing
in the roiling space
his words described but
his unthinking grace.

(Dear man: forgive me if I’m rude: but if you
want advice about accomplishing a lovely life,
pay attention to what you just did to food.)


.