Dealers of Death
They all circled
one big round table.
The anticipation was alive
in the spittle on their lips.
No one was talking
or looking at anyone else.
The fish was so fresh
you could smell the salt.
When the server brought
that huge platter of rolls
hands and eyes tore through
the empty space above the table.
So much sushi
decimated in a cloud
of rice and splintered chop sticks.
3 spider rolls, gone.
2 pokey rolls, washed away.
4 Alaska and 3 California rolls noshed with fury.
Countless other fish and veggie blends
caught between teeth and tongue.
On that cold, angry night
sea and field were emptied.
When the meal finished
the small plates were stacked hap-hazardly.
Overturned cups and saucers
stank of disregard.
A thin coat of soy sauce and wasabi
was splattered on everything.
A greenish-blackish sheen.
The innocents at surrounding tables
looked on with horror.
This was a scene of true destruction.
At the end everyone sat
leaning back and sweating.
Sipping water and mashing ginger in their teeth.
Someone let slip a pained groan.
A small sign of weakness,
tired from the kill.
-Michael Bussmann
