There it lay a single grain,
off the plate on the floor
next to a pea,
green as a wax crayon,
freed last night after Zeus,
the family cockapoo, decided to seize the opportunity
presented by the ring of the doorbell,
the delivery man returning with change for a hundred,
the caller forgetting that they didn’t accept credit cards
for the lo mein, and their famous
house fried rice
and the Peking duck,
with crispy skin, bronzed and perfect as always,
the center flesh as succulent
as grandma’s cream corn
on a cold winter’s evening.
It was a fine specimen, once brown,
then white,
now brown again from Kikkoman and spice,
resting under the table
until the pregnant
Maria Rosa, the Puerto Rican housekeeper
with the purple finger nails
and a tattoo of Jesus,
comes to clean the apartment
at 10:30.
5 February 2009
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