The Wok

A short poem about a landed refugee I saw in a doorway.

The Wok

Outside a stark restaurant bore a wok
On a sign, and a man stood straight
In the door. I blessed him when asked
Ware. He said nothing. He stood straight and tall.

The woman who served the food could speak.
She was Canadian. She took my order.
I had fish and pork and chicken chow mein.
I asked if this was a wok. I asked
If this sauce stuff was American. It tasted

Washy and watery to me the woman said,
Everything is cooked in a wok. I said
Everything but the fish, the pork, the chicken, and the chow mein.

Tomorrow, I will ask to take his picture
With my compact computer camera. Is there
Another man standing in a doorway like that,
Somewhere far away in protest