Waiting For Spring Rolls
By
John I. Blair
Sitting here at the Asian deli,
Restless on a hard wood bench
Designed, I think, for lotus legs
And bare recumbent heels,
I stare into the case beside me.
There in cold confinement
Nests an amplitude of foods,
Each dish less familiar
Than the one before,
With nothing named.
Huge dumplings filled with mystery,
Waiting for their steam bath,
Multicolored slaws in plastic bins,
Pallid lumps of who-knows-what
In seaweed wraps,
Small bowls of pasty . . . Fish? Rice?
Tests of occidental trust.
But I’ve grown so hungry
Waiting for my spring rolls
By now everything looks nice.
©2005 John I. Blair
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