Posted in Poetry

The Ramen Stand

After over eleven hours scratching

at projects and final tests,

my hands ache too much to hold a pen

much less a frying pan.

I walk over a bridge with empty trees

leading to a hidden stairway.

Past the sketchy doorways

of the riverside haunts,

my ramen stand appears.

Ramen with an egg, yes please,

all the salt you can spare-

No, no miso.

The school lunch included miso fish

which never sits well.

Everyone laughs as they toasts with Asahi,

“Ostukare!”

I eat without a slurp,

too hungry to pause for breath.

As the sun sets the river blazes

in a dance of golden red,

but we drunk fools

take no pictures.

Am I still single? Yes, always.

No, no, don’t set me up with your son!

Jokes, jokes, anecdotes,

sure I’ll take some French fries.

We start to shiver as the street lights

blink on at the bridge.

I receive a service side of yakisoba

to save my stomach from school fish.

Chairs clatter as we all stand up.

The smell of ramen broth is thick

on our clothes and hair,

but we don’t care.

The owner gives me a grin.

“Come again!”

Someday, I say,

someday soon

not just for food

but for friends too.

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Author:

Life in Japan suits me, so I write about it.

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