the laughing buddha

someone brings
a crying
baby into the room of
the long white
restaurant with
soiled red carpet.
she looks to be
at least five
months
pregnant, her
face is red,
blotched with
raspberry spots,
a stroller is pulled
behind her,
a bag
of diapers, small
blankets and a
bag of bottles are
draped over
her shoulder.
the father
is not far behind,
squared jawed
with a cap on.
three small
boys of
decreasing height
are in front
of him,
touching
each chair and
kicking one
another.
they are seated
at a table in back
of the chinese
restaurant.
where they loudly
sit.
the children
drumming and poking
one another
with chopsticks.
there is no music,
no joy, or conversation.
just the sound
of knives and forks,
the clinking of white
plates, glasses full
of pink flowered
drinks, called zombies.