a taste for chinese

Corporate Design
the riddle is in the man
who stands in front of his opened car trunk
in winter's darker evening
with a wide smile
and says
"you know, i just love to eat Chinese
can't get enough of it. Dream of it every night.
mmm, mmm."
 
i stopped, with my tall, thin frame;
there were still markets that catered to his taste
for a definite sum that he would need to pay
and i asked him a favour
that when he arrived
to detail the flavour
and ask where she might have gotten her
ingredients
what bud or leaf could grow that discriminating taste
from the base of his brain
so i might barter for her mind and spirit
and leave him with the root of,
man, do you understand from which tree grows,
most heavy, the burden of knowing men like you?
 
he repeats, with his wide smile,
"i love eating Chinese

dream of it every night.
mmm, mmm."
 
of course, my apologies,
the history of this cooking and gardening are irrelevant
when the results of my garnishes and cultivation stand before you
in that cold darkness and before his wide smile and running car
i was afraid and angry and still tall and thin
was this the scent that carried him on?
 
to this day, i think he's still there
i've had to forget him and not be afraid or angry
this is my on-going lesson in Chinese
what ancient seed or grain has fallen into my soup
 and left this discriminating taste?
 

© lyw