Watching Those Fingers Poem by Alexandre Nodopaka

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.