Close But

The soup had the right color in the bowl.

The temperature was off—some margin, small,

something my aunt does in the second hour

I've watched but never asked about at all,

never wrote down, and now I'm here,

the restaurant too bright, the room too loud,

and I took one spoonful and the spoon

just stayed. I wasn't saying it out loud

but this wasn't it. Fine. It wasn't bad.

I ate the whole thing. Tipped more than I should.

Walked home mostly quiet. The person with me

noticed and said nothing, which was good,

which was kind, actually.

The soup was close.

Not nothing-like—the other thing,

the worse thing: almost.