Now I know why you hid letters
in your breadbox, bound in transit
and cluttered in commonplace things --
an overripe pear, pale yellow brown,
a dish wide like the moon's white;
underneath, clear water to keep
expedient ants at bay; a dash of butter
streaked carelessly on day-old platters;
Now I know why you sing Doris Day
all day on an ancient boom box,
as you wait tables, giggly schoolgirls
crowing over the latest release single,
spearing seared asparagus as an
afterthought, scrawled shaky doodles
on flimsy paper napkins, torn when
the biro runs out of ink, and forgets
to lubricate finely meshed fibres.
Now I know why you kept your thoughts
neatly filed in a cabinet marked "P"
for "Purloined", write off bad cheques
without reservation, with a handsome
Waterman, while considering
the rising food cost, the fat trimmed
away from the whole; You always
had on your eye on the greater picture,
so scene-stealing mimics cannot deduce
your divine demi-glace, reduced to
a hidden card up a greasy jacket sleeve.
Now I know why you bit your inner lip,
as you plan the menu for the following week -
no one knows the establishment is closing
as we speak; you may have lost your recipes,
but your bundled letters, loosely woven
from a history of satisfied customers,
lie still in a complacent breadbox,
permanently shuttered from the rest of the world.