The ramen restaurant . . . offers personal “flavor-concentration booths,” where patrons . . . can experience “low-interaction dining.”
- Emma Allen, Eating Ramen By Yourself Is An Antidote To Everything
The isolationist in you polishes silver
in a high-ceilinged cobwebbed room
collecting and comparing handwriting samples
from hedonists . . . and patrons . . .
on the truth of the matter . . .
the Mad Hatter's riddles
etch-a-sketching memories
of your understudy, Miss Havisham . . .
a bowl of ramen noodles
a piece of wedding cake
the clock's hands cradling the past . . .
You are stymied . . . again . . .
despite the entries in your journal
its blank pages evidence
of your odyssey's decay . . .
The wedding album awaits edits . . .
Your conquests pile up in the alcove
where a fruit basket interviews applicants
for the role of supplicant . . .
a minor role, yes, but relevant
to the underpainting
which you insist is essential . . .
You, like many, fear micromanagement . . .
The scene . . . color-coded . . . familiar . . .
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| Bruno Dayan |