Under soft and cooled light I wept when thou, light-winged, had flown
Thou hadst abandoned me — thought I, struck with tinged blue,
Numb at the thought that, like the fated Egg Shoppe, thine light of life
Golden and spry, had been gutted and left ne’er to return.
Those bereft weeks did pass without haste, aired by a woeful countenance
Universally wrought and seen upon many a passerbyer’s face
But thou art but a teasing songbird, “‘Taste”’ — may I call you that, dear friend? —
Thine gates opened once more to those souls of Eons past and
Eons more to go at thine Resnikian place.
“‘Rejoice!”’ said we thine customers, tormented and fraught souls no more
“‘Rejoice and may God lend us blocks and Flex to spend on thee!”’
Gilded gates rose before us and glittering troughs of foods lied there ahead of us:
Dishes of a dozen colors most delightful, colors to make Leonardo bow!
Now, as I scribble these stirred words, I can think but one thought:
“‘O! for a taste of masala, or flourishing naan, or sun-blessed and floral-laden
lassi!”’
“‘O! for thine alu gobhi I pine, or that sweet, enchanted kheer!”’
Indeed, those were two thoughts, I admit, but when imagining Taste of India, no
good sense in me retains.
For how can any Man, who dares call himself sane, not weep with joy at the
thought of thee, Taste —
And not too sob with sorrow at his plate’s lack in any absent moment?
No doubt thou art miracle-sent, fond restaurant of mine; a source of life to
Keep this campus’s soul alive.
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