All that is Good is Slow

Tables spill out of the back of the restaurant
into a narrow alleyway,
just out of reach of tourists.
Everything, the food, the wine is simple and fresh.
Conversations are lively
and you cannot understand a word.

It is a good place to be, slightly lost in Venice.
You believed you would never return.
At your age, journeys are less common,
adventures less likely; home
harder to come by. Every return
might be your last. You and death
have danced a few times. You are intimate,

not afraid, but aware that every moment matters
and true home is rare, and precious,
and grows harder to come by.
Harder still to hold.

The food is good. Fresh. Not complex at all.
It takes time to cook. No one is in a hurry.
This is why the company matters.
You are not here for fuel, you are here for the soul,
to take the time to listen to the timbre of her voice,
each line and the texture of her skin
lit by candles.

It takes three days. Go to a place for three days,
and you become a regular. The waiter stops his patter
and begins to talk with you. The owner learns your name,
and you learn his. The espresso at the end of the meal
silently becomes a double.
There are other regulars there,
and they nod at you. An acknowledgement
that you are one of them now,
if only for a few nights.

No one is in a hurry. I cannot say that enough.
It is a thing we have forgotten, how not to rush,
how to take the time with friends and lovers
and our God to know them. Talking. Listening.
Laughing. To feel real feelings
as simple and perfect as the food.

About this poem.

About dining in Venice. About where home really is. About taking the time to know. (Hurry is the death of relationships.). About life, love, and faith.

Poetry is never about one thing.

Tom

No wonder then