Tucked in a booth in back,

the last customer of the day

cracks a fortune cookie,

sips Oolong as Mr. Hong

locks up. It’s time for his supper.

Two tall sons bear

from the kitchen dishes

his wife won’t allow

on the menu.

Platters of meat

red, green, brown

huddle and steam

in the middle of the table.

When the Hongs

drop in their seats

chopsticks fly

like beaks. So many bright teeth,

quick as piranha.

— by Donal Mahoney