When Epicurus came to lunch, he sat
across from me and looked into my eyes.
He didn’t eat enough to make him fat
but what he chose impelled me with surprise
to ask his reasoning: Why relish that
instead of this? What flavor qualifies
this morsel to be tasty? Then I spat
an olive in my palm, appearing wise.

“My dear apprentice,” answered me the sage,
engorging him with sight of me as meet
as pleasure measured by his simple needs,
“I’m overjoyed to see you, write a page,
adjust my spine to music, or to eat
a little avocado, beer, and seeds.”