like pots and pans
banging
against one another.
a drum roll of chopsticks.
i guess
it's meant to be some sort
of Chinese
music
pouring out of invisible
speakers
set behind
black and red
vinyl chairs
and tables.
the staff is thin.
a single waiter is working
the bar
and tables.
tired.
it's late, it's cold,
the wind
is howling.
it's not what you expected
for thanksgiving,
but here you are
with a plate
of general Tso's chicken.,
half-eaten,
breaking apart
your stale fortune cookie
to read
your future.
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