The soy congeals. My chopsticks prod a duck
with hoisin glaze, half-cold and sweetly bland.
Outside, a man is yelling. With the luck
of bystanders, I watch with sauce in hand.
His wallet's gone. A teenager in black
has legged it, hooting, past the vape kiosk.
He trips. The wincing pavement takes him back,
then off he runs. I sip my tea. With mask
half-down, a woman films. No one gives chase.
The man looks round as if to make a case
for rage or maybe pity. I look up
to watch the muted TV on the wall.
The waitress comes back to refill my cup
of jasmine tea. I do not speak at all.