poetry book

Seems like a long time

Since the waiter took my order.

Grimy little luncheonette,

The snow falling outside.

Seems like it has grown darker

Since I last heard the kitchen door

Behind my back

Since I last noticed

Anyone pass on the street.

A glass of ice-water

Keeps me company

At this table I chose myself

Upon entering.

And a longing,

Incredible longing

To eavesdrop

On the conversation

Of cooks.

—Charles Simic