Dining Alone

Dining Alone

That table at the French restaurant sees many people but
Every Sunday the girl with the long red hair would appear and say "table for one."
A single duck a l'orange.
She watched the couples, ate quietly, finished her food, paid promptly and left.
2 years.

That table at the French restaurant was meant for two.

One Sunday the girl came in smiling:
"Table for two" and he joined she.
He ordered duck and she ordered fish.
A meal for two.
They were a couple: they ate less quietly, shared their food, paid promptly and left.
3 years.

And suddenly it was back to "table for one", the status quo, but not quite:
A solitary salmon confit.
The girl with the long red hair eating resolutely, no, defiantly, as if
Nothing had changed.
As if a phantom of the mind didn't sit opposite her, eating duck.

That table at the French restaurant has seen many people come and go.

She watched the couples, sighed, ate quietly, finished her food, paid promptly and left.




An almost autobiographical freestyle poem on finding love and breaking up, and its impact on routine. Dining alone meant nothing to me before I was ever in a relationship. But once you’ve had something and it is taken away from you, you realise that you will never be the same again.