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.