I glance at the takeaway menu

and every luscious dish calls out,

I’m hungry, I salivate.

I recall Eria’s audition too suddenly

to dodge; a writing exercise

enacted by my Japanese friend,

a on Sukhumvit;

Now I can’t get her

out of my wretched mind,

she has snuck

into every crevice of my being.

unblinking with élan

and practiced ease:

husband lost his job,

child in arms,

she calls out to a passing Farang,

“some money or food, your choice Madame!”

My stomach heaves with

an unidentifiable ache.

It isn’t hunger

I shut the menu-bearing screen,

peer out of my glass door,

breathe hard, eyes wide open.

I look. I see. I moan.

What was I thinking?

Did I truly yearn for a cuisine other

than the one on my daily hob?

Do I desire more than I ought?

Should I fast today to honour

the loss of livelihood,

Or continue to live as I do,

In excessive abundance?

Heavy with guilt

an ingrate am I? Or a simple fool

who looks the other way?

Who’s to tell, who can say?

Forgive me for I know not.

Forgive me for I ought not.

Forgive me for my greed,

and for wanting more of

all already within reach.

©kamalininatesanAug2021