Sitting there in the restaurant, Chinese,
Feeling with the sticks so at ease
Thinking I’m doing so darn good
Because I reach my mouth with food.
Out of this reverie, I quickly depart
Waking up with a total start.
For I look over at my Chinese friend
Whom from above God did send.
And, what do I see but the “Look”
The hardest, coldest one in the book.
All at the table became wrapped in silence
Waiters stepped back from potential violence.
Her face was wrapped in the darkest of cloud
While lightening shot from eyes so proud.
When the stare was at its most intense,
I answered in total male innocence
With immortal masculine words taught
When all else fails, say “What?”
The tone of answer would turn lava to ice blue,
“So, you’re not doing it as I showed you?”
“What can you possibly mean?
I’m getting food to my mouth so clean?”
“But, the way you do is not at all right.
And, I’ll show again if it takes all night!”
Hours later, she, once so strong, so bold,
Gives up after the meal has long gone cold.
Looking at me in disgust, so total and staying
She rises from her chair exhausted, saying
“Never with chopsticks of wood or plastic,
Have I encountered anyone so spastic!”
And, out of the restaurant, she stormed
Never believing I can ever be reformed.
Now, it’s a year later, I’m happy to say
I can use the sticks in every way.
Not only in uses functional it seems
But also as artistically as the situation deems
She still joins me for meals which are Asian
And we use only chopsticks at these occasions.
And, though others will say I’m very good
For a round-eye (that’s to be understood).
She never says anything to compliment this schnook
And, I just thank God, I’m not getting the “Look”!