kimchee omelet

Oh ex-lover,

she won’t treat me anything anymore.

Oh jelly-thing, sweet-bean,

I’m mixing monikers,

tangling terms of.

Don’t blame it on alcohol,

but my sobered self-imposing

of self-absorbed sobriety.

I’m too sober, thinking.

I can’t hear what I’m writing.

I hear the flapping

of a paper tomato taped

to a wall in front of a fan.

I see her blanket in its red skin.

Her name rhymes with its stem: green.

Tomato, oregano,

origami, tatami.

Tokyo isn’t far from her Seoul.

Cities across ocean.

There’s a shark under my bed.

Cities across nation.

The egg came from the chicken, 

I read—in my New York Times.

Carl Sagan said

that making breakfast “from scratch,

you have to begin with the universe.”

A crack from Long Island to Tillamook Head.

Two people making breakfast on opposite ends.

I can’t cook eggs alone anymore.

I need her help to make a cheesy omelet.

Please tell her, I still love

her macaroni cheesiness.

And there’s koh-pee in my mug.

Inside joke, like “what’s kim-chee?”

It’s in my head, what Socrates said.

“The hottest love has the coldest end.”

If my heart is the omelet,

then she is kim-chee.

Spicy enough, I hope,

to stay warm a little longer.

I’ll sit at the table,

sipping water in my mug.

Kim-chee, Mianhamnida,

Mahal kita, Kamsahamnida.

photo:http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3251/3146669395_0017d81686.jpg