I would have gotten it all wrong

I am glad I resisted the temptation, 

if it was a temptation when I was young, 

to write a poem about an old man 

eating alone at a corner table in a Chinese restaurant. 

 

I would have gotten it all wrong 

thinking: the poor bastard, not a friend in the world 

and with only a book for a companion. 

He'll probably pay the bill out of a change purse. 

 

So glad I waited all these decades 

to record how hot and sour the hot and sour
soup is 

here at Chang's this afternoon 

and how cold the Chinese beer in a frosted glass. 

 

And my book –– José Saramago's Blindness 

as it turns out –– is so absorbing that I look up 

from its escalating horrors only 

when I am stunned by one of his gleaming sentences. 

 

And I should mention the light 

that falls through the big windows this time of the day 

italicizing everything it touches –– 

the plates and teapots, the immaculate tablecloths, 

 

as well as the soft brown hair of the waitress 

in the white blouse and short black skirt, 

the one who is smiling now as she bears a cup of rice 

and shredded beef with garlic to my favorite table in the corner. 

 

[Billy Collins {1941- } 'Old Man Eating Alone in a Chinese Restaurant', from Aimless Love]