Only Here

I ordered the same thing.

The owner's greeting

told me he knew my name

before I came.

He brought it on that plate—

the one I've learned to wait

for, the one with the chip

on the left, the slight skip

in the glaze.

The sauce pooled in the usual place,

the same corner, the same grace,

like it followed rules only

this kitchen knew, only

this moment could hold.

"Like always?" he told

me, asked me, rather,

and I said yes, to gather

some meaning from the meal,

to feel what was real

about coming here week after week.

If I went somewhere else to seek

this same food, the plate

would be wrong. The fate

of the sauce would pool

differently. The rule

of this place would break.

The smell from the open kitchen, the bake

of heat and garlic and time,

would belong to another clime,

another life, another way

of spending Tuesday.

So I come back. I pay

the same amount. I stay

in this ritual until

the crack in the plate will

finally break it into two,

until Tuesday tastes new,

until this place becomes

just another one.

But not yet. Not in the sum

of this moment. Not while

the plate holds, while

I can still taste the same,

still know its name,

still come home.