Happiness can abound When a man eats In his apartment alone. Manhattans and hors d’oeuvres In the living room, The stuffed mushrooms from a recipe In Julia Child’s book– A gift from a dear one Who now lives far away. A sumptuous plate in the kitchen– The Cornish hen’s preparation Taught long ago by a dear one Who no longer breathes, But ever inspires. A glass of dark red life Whose bold bouquet recalls A holiday table decades ago Where I first understood the nobility of the grape Listening to a dear one Whom I will drive to visit next week. A black plastic disc on the turntable Bringing Berlioz to my eager ears, The legacy of a dear one, Who now can only visit me In my cherished dreams. Happiness abounds When in one’s solitude One is not alone.