Hungry
is the hand
that grips the fork
and the noodles
like worms that wrap
round and round
its tines.
Hungry
is this world
where behind me
someone says
ground pork
napa cabbage,
and another pushes
a highchair up close
for a child in a pink T-shirt.
A man holds a baby
to watch through glass
a cook who chops bok choi,
stirs steaming pots.
And here come the shrimp
dumplings to one table,
bowls of soup with strips
of beef like tiny canoes
on the brawny surface.
So strange,
this brief life.
We are hungry
and we are gone.
Dear reader,
dear customer —
Sip your broth,
pale yellow, still
as a bird bath.