Shrimp In Lobster Sauce Poem by Donal Mahoney

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.