Wearealljustjewelsofricetogetherinabowl.Wearealljustjewelsofricetogetherinabowl.
Creases cover the Chinese face that faces me,
Chin up, eyes down, as if he does not want to see.
In his hand, in the air he holds chopsticks like royalty
While picking away at his leftover rice individually.
One by one, he brings them into his mouth
As the television news in Mandarin sounds;
That there was a protest in the neighborhood
Against a centre to house refugees for good.
“No to illegal border crossers” a woman berates
And “Defend our border” signs waved in display.
All of these protestors at this broadcasted scene
I had noticed all bore a face similar to me.
So did the old man sitting across just a few feet
Who sneered whenever I had something to eat.
I don’t know much Chinese; I have to confess.
But I understood the mutterings under his breath.
“Hao, hao”; or, “Good, good” nodding in agreement
With those protestors who denied the improvement
Of those who require some compassion.
Yet at me, his head still shook in derision.
As I left the restaurant and ignored his narrowed look,
I thought could it be my use of a fork
That renders me, to him, so openly different
Where help, if I need, he and they would prevent.
Wearealljustjewelsofricetogetherinabowl.Wearealljustjewelsofricetogetherinabowl.
