Comfort Food
July 20 2008


I’ve been told women look warily
at shoes —
turning up her nose
at discount sneakers;
making mental notes
about the snakeskin;
wondering if a guy who can’t be bothered to buff
is worth waxing for.

Me, I keep my gaze strictly from the neck up,
listening attentively, nodding,
— especially after the unfortunate incident
I let them go wandering.
No, I judge people less obviously,
asking early on
what they eat to forget.

In a moment of weakness
is it chocolate she reaches for?
Or does he cram his pie-hole with cake?
Or tuck-in to meat loaf,
leaning back, pants undone
hazily nostalgic for mum?

I tend to be suspicious
of anyone consoled by liquids,
from cocoa to spritzers
spiked with gin.
The fried egg sandwich is good, though,
and on white bread with mayo, a cinch.
But never admit
you seek comfort in tofu or carrot sticks.
I once did,
and all I ever met
were famished vegetarians.

Just say grilled cheese
which is always safe,
or ice cream, straight from the carton;
and any man can get away
with socks and sandals,
no problem.