Poetry

Dim Sum

Every Sunday, we walk into the waiting room
Give a name, take a number
It always surprises me, with so many around,
It takes but minutes to be seated

And then again, I am sitting at the white table
Some days the carts swarm toward us
Ladies, young and old, advertising their wares
Others, we feel shunned, as a jilted lover

Always it is loud, a plethora of voices
A multitude of tongues. And waving. And pointing.
I imagine this is what it is like on the floor
Of the stock exchange. Here the commodity is food.

Everybody is speaking at once, everyone is moving at once
I feel I’m the center of a carousel, at the eye of a cyclone.
I listen to the snatches of conversation I can manage.
In that weekend dialect that is at once familiar and foreign

I pick at the food I recognize, avoiding the stranger things
Chicken legs and cow stomach, curried squid and pig’s blood
Savoring instead the slick shrimp wrapped in rice noodle
Picking from the bamboo basket pork dumplings

So many dishes, so many tastes
Dishes and baskets pile up
And are whisked away
Just as quickly.

Everyone takes turns pouring tea
Tapping fingers
Talking
Eating

It is over all too soon.
We pay our bill and leave.
Once again I’ve managed to stuff myself all too full.
Now on the quiet car ride home on the empty Sunday streets

My head fills with all the things left to do
On the waning end of a weekend
And I wonder how it is I was more at peace amidst that din
Than alone here, with only my thoughts.