Soup at Zuma

The air hums amicably.

Crisp Wednesday midnights

make for good company

on long-kneaded days as these.

Five dollars will fulfill their destiny

tonight, at Zuma on Old Woodward,

where a Pink-haired, wired thing

strikes a smile and the register drawer.

The Minestrone noodles fold

and slop over themselves, like the day,

working against their midnight hour

resolved to stay noodles long as possible.

There's no need to chew.

The small heap of vegetarianism works

its way down into my abyss and says,
"Goodnight," like the day