Chinese Chef Harry Luong hands
a plate of lo mein, laughing. Him,
not the food. With one chopstick,
and says, in his accented froth,
'Here, eat this!'
I always think the pinnacle of
a perfect poem is just like that.
It's chef-made stuff, perfectly
done - you know it's something,
though you're not sure what. Or
how to take it in. One chopstick?
Are you kidding once again?