four raviolis

it's a fine

establishment.

the long curve of a bar,

the wood,

the linen

tablecloths, the man

at the door,

the woman

showing you to your

table.

soft music

is in the air.

there is a trained

pleasantness

to it all.

and the food, the menu

in three languages.

none of them

quite yours

is hard to read in this

dim light.

but you spot the word

ravioli

and point to make

the order.

a hundred dollars

later,

you're out the door,

peeking

into a pizza parlor window.

4 raviolis weren't

quite enough,

you need more.