Darkness has pressed up against our lattice windows. Classes start again in the morning. I’m being reabsorbed by college life. I’m a planner. I’ve been going over my syllabuses, repacking my bookbag, charging my power banks, checking and rechecking the assignments due tomorrow. After watching me prep for hours, Peter said, “You’re not going to the MOON.”

Peter asked me last Friday, “Are you excited for Monday? (I’ll find out if I get my fellowship.)
“I’m more excited about tonight,” I said, “I like going out on the town.”
“Wow,” he said, “you’re so different - not like the other girls at all.”
“No!” I said, laughing, “We’re stuck in a rut, we only go to one or two places, ever - if we go out at all. When people come to New Haven, I need places to take them - places besides pizza. At home, in Athens (Ga), I know twenty places - this is RESEARCH.” I assured him.

Peter settled back into his doctorate-fraternity-house yesterday. Tonight (Sunday), there’s music in the suite, the crazy noises of people and the comfort of returned friends. All the roommates are back, greeted with hugs and kisses, as they dragged in their luggage.

Lisa arrived with dinner, for 10, from Dominick's, in Manhattan. Spaghetti, salads, rolls, extra sauce - in six, small, suitcase-sized insulated bags. It was a logistical marvel. It’s only 90 minutes from Manhattan to the residence - we didn’t need to rewarm anything. “I KNOW we could have just eaten in the dining hall,” she said, shrugging, “call it zany - one last hurrah.”

Everyone seemed happy to be back. There were travel stories, questions, and laughter. Oh, and Zeppole, little powdered sugar custard desserts that seemed the worst for travel. Everyone seemed to have an eye on the clock though. By 11pm the suite was quiet. Très unusual.

dinner
prepared so carefully for you
curled up on your plate
next to the other sides

and you take your fork
and you take your knife

and you cut me open
and you take a bite

He sits quietly while she explains patiently
what it is that he really wants.
If only he'd listen, he'd not have the stress
of second guessing himself.

In his quiet, in the soft breeze
of her advice, he runs
through perfectly good past menu options
and again considers how their taste
had readily agreed with him.

He resolves and waits for her
to finish her salad,
and before dessert he explains
he needs to leave and walk the dog.

And once safe home,
old Pippa loves him for who he is
and he gratefully takes the lead,
while blocking one more number on his Nokia
and pocketing a mini mars bar for later.

The stove tops warm
The chattering of dinner conversation fill the air
We would talk about our day, or something funny that we found

Sometimes our hands would smell like newspaper ink
from an article you shared
Or you would make fun of the chubby catfish in the tank

The food warms our hearts, no restaurant could compare
The softness of the rice reminds me of the softness of your heart
The vegetables remind me of your love
The meat and tofu remind me to stay strong
and that you are someone I can rely on

Friends may come and go
And all of us grow old
But your laughter at the dinner table
Is something my heart will always know

To eat alone
is to think
of another.

The human appetite
To **** the pain
to not experience any
dis-
comfort

The human appetite
to run a-way
far, away
are
seeds planted from our
footsteps

The more we run
the bigger the
plant
the hungrier
we get
the greater the ruin
in our run

Don't avoid
the burdens of
engaging lost plans,
or others.
Other Wise, the human
starves its self
in a marathon
by sealing off mouths.

Alimentary,
Leaving one, you, her, they,
them,  in the
hunger cycle
to feed
then crushed
left void

Elementary words
     don't avoid
pain.
It requires a handshake
a' la carte,
Indulge.
   remedy is in
the crash diet.
Come home now.
It's time for dinner.