little pig does poetry
Ad 2:
2003-01-03 09:20:49 (UTC)

Main Ingredient

Mornings tap his shoulders, and
the thought of work manages to drag him
out of a bed of paradise.

Routines of stockroom duty,
short timed breaks and the awaited
departure from confinement

bring him home. Rushing again,
he summons salty rain, soy sauce streams,
and plenty of heart to fire

up the pot of pork.
As the heat squeezes
sweat from his forehead

like he bullies a lemon,
dinner steps closer to the
finish line.

Like many times before, we’d eat
in silence. Eyes rarely meeting.
Instead, they befriend our bowls

of rice and chopstick tips.
And even if our words
remain frozen on the crevices

of our lips, I feel
his heart melt in my mouth
with every bite and chew.