the server (waiter) raps
praise upon the sushi,
its integrity,
the harmonic
of its construct,
the curated singularity of
each rice grain
the innate elegance of
the thin sliced,
nearly translucent,
au naturel, organic,
ginger root
the skin smooth paste of
green wasabi,
grown naturally
along stream beds in
mountain river valleys in Japan
genuinely puzzled,
when he,
the old erstwhile poet
unabashedly weeps before all
no hero he,
just an overcome one,
his tears flavoring his food
mourning the
celebrated abuse
of his verbal children,
those natured nurtured babes
the stuff,
the words of his definition
each weird word,
loved for their cultured,
unique quality of their history
grown in languages's
perpetual petri dish
asked if something was a matter,
answered yes,
"this plated performance,
such an extravagant essay
on the beauteous wonder
of life's bounty,
left me wordless"
and she, burst out loud in laughter
