An Empty Plate
06/25/13 22:38
I am trying to be patient.
I wish you understood how hungry I am.
Patience was never my strong suit.
Waiting to sate hunger, doubly so.
Like a dog staring at a steak on the other side of the glass,
I sit here, waiting for the right moment.
It's not natural, holding off hunger this long.
It's not right, being denied so much as a potato chip.
You and I both know this is no four star restaurant
This will not be exotic
Gordon Ramsay is not in the kitchen,
Haranguing some poor sous chef,
Questioning his manhood, bringing him to tears
All for the sake of preparing for us
A perfect dish of roasted pheasant cheeks
This is a solid, simple meal.
Entree, salad, side dish, a glass of water.
Maybe wine, if we're feeling daring.
But the meal is never ready. The chicken is too dry,
The mashed potatoes, too wet, the salad, too oily,
And before I can raise a fork to my mouth,
Before I can even savor the aroma, overspiced though it may be,
You send it away, saying not right, not right, not right!
We will not eat until everything is RIGHT.
I keep silent, I don't complain, because I know it would do no good,
Because I know that context is important to you,
That a meal where something is out of place
Where something is NOT RIGHT, is worse for you than no meal at all.
And I try to be on the same page, because that's what I SHOULD do.
So I sit, and smile, and chat, and ignore the couple in the next booth over,
The thin plywood barrier between us and them not obscuring
Their groans of ecstasy over the Chilean seabass,
The scrape of silverware, the smacking of lips,
The crunch of celery, the slurp of bisque.
At first it's easy, because I know the food must come sooner or later,
But with each denied platter of steaming sustenance
Snatched away by your unrelenting standards,
My own benchmarks sink ever lower,
I want to cry out, object, plead, beg,
Cry out that I don't need filet mignon, I just need filling
And finally I find my eye more and more drawn to other tables.
And when your attention is fixed elsewhere,
When I'm sure my gaze will go unnoticed,
Staring, through hooded eyes,
At the food others are eating.
As my stomach gnaws, and our conversation grows more terse, I grow suspicious
That somehow this is MY fault, that you, dissatisfied with me,
Are subconsciously subjecting me to some Pavlovian punishment,
That I am become the Kate to your Petruchio,
Denied everything I want and need in the name of my own benefit,
Until I learn, instinctively, to be what you want.
Well, I'll show you, I think, gnawing my own fingernails off meekly
As I stare at someone else's starter.
Visions fill my mind of another diner turning to me,
Holding forth a morsel of blood rare beef,
And in a low voice, saying, "Would you like some of mine?"
And no steak in the waking world tastes as good as this unfaithful fancied forkful.
A sense of guilt inevitably follows after,
As I tell myself that, of course, I could never eat another person's entree
Even if it were offered, which of course, it never will be,
That it will be dinner with you, or none at all
And that I will wait, and wait, and wait,
Until it's finally, mercifully, right.
I wish you understood how hungry I am.
Patience was never my strong suit.
Waiting to sate hunger, doubly so.
Like a dog staring at a steak on the other side of the glass,
I sit here, waiting for the right moment.
It's not natural, holding off hunger this long.
It's not right, being denied so much as a potato chip.
You and I both know this is no four star restaurant
This will not be exotic
Gordon Ramsay is not in the kitchen,
Haranguing some poor sous chef,
Questioning his manhood, bringing him to tears
All for the sake of preparing for us
A perfect dish of roasted pheasant cheeks
This is a solid, simple meal.
Entree, salad, side dish, a glass of water.
Maybe wine, if we're feeling daring.
But the meal is never ready. The chicken is too dry,
The mashed potatoes, too wet, the salad, too oily,
And before I can raise a fork to my mouth,
Before I can even savor the aroma, overspiced though it may be,
You send it away, saying not right, not right, not right!
We will not eat until everything is RIGHT.
I keep silent, I don't complain, because I know it would do no good,
Because I know that context is important to you,
That a meal where something is out of place
Where something is NOT RIGHT, is worse for you than no meal at all.
And I try to be on the same page, because that's what I SHOULD do.
So I sit, and smile, and chat, and ignore the couple in the next booth over,
The thin plywood barrier between us and them not obscuring
Their groans of ecstasy over the Chilean seabass,
The scrape of silverware, the smacking of lips,
The crunch of celery, the slurp of bisque.
At first it's easy, because I know the food must come sooner or later,
But with each denied platter of steaming sustenance
Snatched away by your unrelenting standards,
My own benchmarks sink ever lower,
I want to cry out, object, plead, beg,
Cry out that I don't need filet mignon, I just need filling
And finally I find my eye more and more drawn to other tables.
And when your attention is fixed elsewhere,
When I'm sure my gaze will go unnoticed,
Staring, through hooded eyes,
At the food others are eating.
As my stomach gnaws, and our conversation grows more terse, I grow suspicious
That somehow this is MY fault, that you, dissatisfied with me,
Are subconsciously subjecting me to some Pavlovian punishment,
That I am become the Kate to your Petruchio,
Denied everything I want and need in the name of my own benefit,
Until I learn, instinctively, to be what you want.
Well, I'll show you, I think, gnawing my own fingernails off meekly
As I stare at someone else's starter.
Visions fill my mind of another diner turning to me,
Holding forth a morsel of blood rare beef,
And in a low voice, saying, "Would you like some of mine?"
And no steak in the waking world tastes as good as this unfaithful fancied forkful.
A sense of guilt inevitably follows after,
As I tell myself that, of course, I could never eat another person's entree
Even if it were offered, which of course, it never will be,
That it will be dinner with you, or none at all
And that I will wait, and wait, and wait,
Until it's finally, mercifully, right.