The city, gracious and
grievous at once, 
stares at the plates,
rocks back and forth
with longing, with ravenous 
tradition to feed;

that today will call itself
a melting pot with all its flavors
blending into one,
glorying in the mashup
and saying.
this is good;

that tomorrow
will call itself a salad 
whose flavors are distinct
and identifiable, whose 
least desirable ingredients
can always be plucked out and set aside;

that deep down prefers
its plates regimented, this not 
touching that; that will sample
of course, try everything
of course, then wash it down
and away with coldish tap water;

that certainly 
welcomes you to sit at the table
(if you will use only the preferred condiments)
and eat as much as you can 
until you are unable to push away
when you’ve had too much;

that will say this is good again
when you tumble off your fragile chair
to the ground; the city
both gracious and grievous;
melting pot salad city, wash
it away later city, pointing and laughing

at you on the ground where you recall
the city’s ravenous traditions, 
where you see that when all
is done someone’s going to be made
to do all the dishes and if the city
doesn’t get up to help clear the table

it is only because 
it still has room for dessert,
some kind of pie, you know
what they say is in it
but the way they look at you reminds you 
that there’s not an apple tree for miles.