I like to eat out in restaurants
of class. The affair is not about
stuffing one's stomach but tasting
the variegated menu and being
the observant kind watching
the waiter's or waitress's fingers
grasping the edge of the plate
presented to you. And, as she or
he does it, I think where were
these fingers just a short while
ago. In horror, I start with nostrils
and ears and move my thoughts
sideways and up to the sweat
on the brow and as my thoughts
descend further and further
I think of their obverse and
suddenly I lose my appetite with
the vision of a porcelain throne.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem