It is difficult to accept
that the glutinous blob
congealed on the plate beneath
the salt lick worthy piles
of ill cooked vegetables
and fried tofu now limp
was ever related to
the swaying stalks in neat rows
between flooded furrows,
under the watchful eye
a Fujiyama and the
Shinto gods residing there.
What would the old farmer
bent over by time think
if he could see what
lay before me this night.
Would his carefully brewed tea
taste remotely like the swill water
that passes for over-steep black tea
that grows tepid in the pot before
you think of consuming it?
For that matter, what
would the farmer say to me
were he to walk into
this fast food pseudo-Asian
cookie-cutter restaurant, or
would he offer me a prayer as he
watched me commit culinary seppuku.