(taut jeans dancing)

An Anthology of Poetry about Being Young and Growing Up
Table Of Contents
Acknowledgments & Links



Christopher Howell

We went to either the Canton Grill or the Chinese Village, both of them on Eighty-second among the car lots and discount stores and small nests of people waiting hopelessly for the bus. I preferred the Canton for its black and bright red sign with the dragon leaping out of it and sneezing little pillows of smoke. And inside, the beautiful green half-shell booths, glittery brass encrusted lamps swinging above them._ What would I have? Sweet and sour? Chow mein with little wagon wheel- shaped slices of okra and those crinkly noodles my father called deep fried worms? Fried rice? Among such succulence, what did it matter? We could eat 'til we were glad and full, the whole family sighing with the pleasure of it. And then the teal All of this for about six bucks, total, my father, for that once-in-a-while, feeling flush in the glow of our happy faces and asking me, "How you doing, son?" Fine, Dad. Great, really, in the light of that place, almost tasting the salt and bean paste and molasses, nearly hearing the sound of the car door opening before we climbed in together and drove and drove, though we hadn't far to go.

Website Design and Hosting by Allied Computing