The Thai place on the corner
I never remember the names of
is closed again. A sign in the window
announces Classic Thai Restaurant
open soon! I ponder
dried Thai chilies
and ginger slivers, coconut curry
blooming white and green.
How many ways are there to make pho?
Sticky rice is sticky rice is sticky rice.
When I get home I’ll find
a small white wax-lined box
at the back of the fridge, hidden
for a week behind the milk and pickles.
The noodles with spicy broccoli–
three chilies–could be from any shop.
The rice will be dried out, a granular brick stuck
to the bottom of the container.
I know this will not end well.
It never does. I regret the decision I’ve made,
have made a thousand times.
I’ll eat it anyway.