Come in from the cold and wrap your hands
around a cup of jasmine green tea
. . .
the table for two is free though too near
the door we fear, leaving on woolen hats
. . .
waiting for the tea to steep before pouring
as the sextet just in pulls back heavy
. . .
curtains to see if the laquered tables
slide together so three can sit in a row.
. . .
Everyone chooses noodles it seems for the soup
for the steam and the salt, for the bowl.
. . .
We try not to hear but the tables are near
voices carry, we eavesdrop reticently.
. . .
Without much to say, we bow our heads
eat clumsily with chopsticks, savoring while slurping.
. . .
Hungry from the cold, heating up now as others talk
of chopping wood and children leaving, flying home to Idaho.
