This poem is completely fictional. I have never been on this date with anyone. This is more of a poem about eating with women than any particular one.
I'm not a fan of the ending to this.

Dinner

I’m usually good enough
to write a poem reflecting
old lights on older hills
and the car trip from Eugene.
I was four.
And I can put them here.
I can label and say,
“Look, a moment.”
That trip
can drag out a slog through snow
into a Ford to wait for warm-up
and a seventeen-year-old’s
breath heating my neck.

But lately, my time waits here
with you
and the work of candlelight
against your teeth and the fork
perched in your fingers.
With your eyes,
you steal me from my years,
pulling me, shuddering,
out of that bath.

Fresh minutes unwrapped,
glimmering:
they sit, plain on white tablecloth,
under pictures of men
in the Old Country
and women, protected by aprons,
gripping bread.
How to know you here?
I can count your scars
and the times you lied
to smooth your father’s drunk.
That, or I can look into the air
as it loads your nostrils
to fire a laugh.