Perhaps it was the way the
extra virgin of the olive oil laid lazily
against the bed of baby greens;

Or maybe the way the server placed the lip
of the water pitcher to kiss the tip of my glass.

He comes back with a red wine for me to sip -
(sent from some male patron)
The glass intrudes upon my thoughts.

And even still, as I write:
the fragrance, shape, touch, texture
of pasta and eggplant
in its rich cream sauce linger.

I know I keep doing this -
thinking of you, desiring you, even now,
after every line I put down.

I must forgo dessert and light up a smoke -
for, despite the gesture of wine,
this lunch is casual, a table set only for me.

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