Glasses clang on the cheap wooden table,
that rocks to and fro as if the presence of water has unlocked
it’s its own nautical aspirations.
We both rattled the chopsticks in our hands,
the grating together adds heat to their core and to our bellies;
we’re ready for the first course to come.
As the waitress waddles over to us, we both begin to rise in our seats,
the smell of the food has already called us to attention
and beckoned us to be ready.
She places it down adjacent to our small plates.
Much, much, too small.
What are they trying to do in this place?
Make me feel ridiculous?
It doesn’t work. No, I’ve parried that jab.
I’ll take the first dish, the salt and pepper chicken wings
and munch on them with my bare hands.
We never needed those irksome chopsticks –
they’ll only slow two wai guo ren like us down.
The table moves faster as we power through the appetisers,
the water is flowing and overflowing;
it’s also been joined by two half pints of golden lager.
It’s cold.
Normally these would be perfect for a summer’s day.
Today, or, tonight in here, though – it quickly heats.
We’re both gulping the water and the warming beer,
and the table feels like with one more push of the
rapid rocking which it’s maintaining,
it will turn into a spinning top.
It will send our food flying. A real mess.
It would all be a shame,
to see such care and precision in the kitchen wasted
because of a dumb-ass table.
The Disinterested Philosopher Gets By 