Ati?

by Billy Collins

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 day italicizing everything it touches — the plates and teapots, the immaculate tablecloths,

by Billy Collins

be happy for others, your time will come.

be happy for others, your time will come.

be happy for others, your time will come.

be happy for others, your time will come.

be happy for others, your time will come.