|
| japanese restaurant | |
| a pebble | I've never eaten here before, have you? |
| of somber black, | |
| polished and silent; | |
| surfaces | |
| midnightlake smooth, | |
| the edges | They do their menu gold on bright red, |
| supple and round | just like a Chinese place. |
| its home, a surface | Don't you think that's garish? |
| of crimson crisp linen, | |
| flanked closely | |
| by silent chopsticks. | |
| you think | I heard their California rolls are good here... |
| it could fit | |
| the hollow part of your palm: | |
| serenity, wish it to stay there, | |
| a pool of black satin | I think I saw him on TV before. He has his |
| quietly drowning the light - | own talk show. This must be a good place. |
| hard, cold, | |
| and yours in your hand: | |
| its statement | Did you know the cold Sake is better quality |
| and question | than the hot one, usually? |
| is silence. | |
| you try | |
| to imagine | They don't give you spoons for the soup in |
| the rush of cold rivers | these Japanese places. At least they have |
| that scoured its surface, | dessert, not just fortune cookies. |
| uncounted time, countless encounters, | |
| losing a bit of itself every time | |
| becoming what it would be | Why do they put these rocks on our table, anyway? |
| when you find it, | |
| as time flowed, | |
| as thoughts flow | |
| downstream... | I think the food's here. Are you listening? |
| © Jon Bohrn (1999) |
