385: Ramen

My ramen sits in front of me, within

the reach of my faint hand, and fainter nose.

But I can’t reach right now, can’t dig right in,

until I write a page or two of prose:

The scent—it taunts me, and, of such, I write.

I wonder when that word was first thus said.

In Greece? When Tantalus endured his plight?

Or when a Frenchman stole a loaf of bread?

One stanza left, and then my feast can start..

A couplet too, to round about my woe.

Dear heart, dear hungry, desperate, dying heart,

hold on one moment—let your sad words flow.

And now I need but one more weary rhyme

before, rapturously, it’s ramen time!