Where are my chopsticks?
Or “you had one job, Pret.”
I pick out
some sushi, and queue with the masses,
I bear unsolicited
thoughts on my glasses,
from the
cashier (a man with no obvious talent
for seducing
the ladies – a bungling gallant),
to the
office I wend, bereft of a fiver
but focused
on what will absorb my saliva.
But where are
my chopsticks? I’m implement-less!
How can I
consume my lunch with finesse?
So I track
down a fork, eat my sushi old-school
with a culturally irregular, frumpier tool.