When a waiter brings my food
and says, “Be careful, the plate is very hot,”
I always touch it. I used to know why
back when why was important to me.
Maybe I thought such a minor act
of bravery would impress the person
sitting across the table. Maybe, if I
acquainted myself with the gradations
of heat, the varieties of fire, I could imagine
surviving longer the long journey to the grave.
I was pretty sure that the explanations, even if
I had one, would only lead to understanding,
which, like most therapy, makes us aware
of what we’ll continue to do. One night
at Mama Sorrento’s, our waiter asked
if everything was satisfactory? I wanted
to say, “No, how could that be possible?”
I didn’t. But when he came back
a second time, wanting to know
if we needed anything else, I couldn’t resist.