He stands in a doorway,
lightly cloaked in a film of shadow,
rolling wordlessly, endlessly
ball after ball of minced pork,
tenderly wrapping each strip in
fragrant, crinkly bean curd skin
before the inevitable crackling descent
into boiling depths of golden oil.
He sits in the corner,
atop a multitude of years
like so many well-worn pages
of a beloved book. There,
he watches his reward,
generations mingling in joy,
and a fulsome repose fills
his eyes, his soul.
He rests in the bosom
of his Father, head cradled
in arms steadfastly crooked in
love, and the sighs and tears
long of eighty-three years,
the weight of a life’s sojourn,
have passed away; wiped
from weathered cheeks finally.
and he smiles.
