the sesame oil that spread over
my kitchen floor has been sucked up
by a towel and wiped with cleaning spray
yet still reeks of a Chinese roadside
eatery without the crackle and sizzle
of bok choi and eggplant the aroma
of frying beef or the steamy scent
of a large pot of white rice
probably the same smell inhaled by
the last one to leave that restaurant
at night . . .but which one?
the chef chopping tomorrow’s vegetables
the bookkeeper balancing profit and cost
the dishwasher cleaning the giant greasy wok
the owner walking out with the money
the guy who wipes tables and mops the floor
or maybe it’s the homeless guy
slumped five feet away
from the back door
who’s mouth waters
just as it opens then closes
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