Rice

These days I live among pretty children
who own a small part of the world
and confidently call it Universe.

I was a happy chef here once. Now I mostly cook
small bowls of rice for myself and a few people
in Universe who like my rice, or say they do.

I’m still happy. I have always made
good, good rice but the pretty children
call me out looking for my former meals.  

Where are all the old flavors,
they say?  Why
just the rice?  We like the rice

but we like other things and you
ought to make those things.  Failure, has been —
what kind of cook are you?

Pretty children of the Universe,
I’m a man who likes his rice —
sometimes with olive oil, sometimes

with chili paste, sometimes 
with butter and cheese,
or with beans and a lot of spice.

Maybe it’s not as 
banquet worthy as you might like, but 
it satisfies, it sustains, it pleases

those who like things kept simple,
aromatic, focused,
thick with life and taste. 

I’m going to have a bowl now
and I’m going to think about you
missing out.  I’m going to remember

how you used
to come running
for the fancy stuff.

I’m going to make extra rice
tonight, pretty children, rulers
of the Universe — do you want to share?

If you don’t, no matter.
It’s a big world out there.  Bigger
than your Universe, and always hungry.