cantonese scribbled on scallion windows,

greasy windows, almost steamed-up

windows, but the special is always

very special — ‘Sichuan Pork Dumpling

Noodle/ 麻辣餃湯面’. and because

you and i live in this island

we are not from, this shitty island

with shit wind, we move

to an inside table, fresh bleach

on fake wood. our bowls of noodles land

after you list the best places to eat in your

faraway city: your mum’s, the best place for

Shabu-shabu, and a Tokyo

neighbourhood with Chinese restaurants.

i wonder if your doctor mum cooks better

than my cleaner mum. what

a beautiful day for lunch? half rain half

the sound of your smile folding. i ask

if you went running this morning,

you reply that you just have no other clothes.

today Mr Tse’s noodles are less salty.

i let silence sit in between your noisy slurps,

my clumsy chopsticks, the limping footsteps

of Mr Tse’s bad knee.

i don’t think i can talk poetry here.

i eat half my heart before i even get to

my scallion oil chicken noodles.