Ramen in Dallas on Friday
Paper cups of ramen. Noodles
naked. Bone-beige. Two people sit,
silent. A physics man. A poet.
The physics man asks: Where’s
the poetry in strings? The poet asks:
And where is the physics in broth
of muffled lightning? These strings—
they slip into black realms.
Fill out round mouths. The taste cityscapes
against the physics man’s tongue,
and there’s Dallas—its walls
salted with art, its people aroused
on rooftops. That day, coins plink
into meters. Lights wink warnings,
while, across sidewalks, shadows
make lovers every few seconds.
And the poet? She’s converting
noodles into calories, fueling stanzas
of odes to ramen, to dimensions
where everyday poetry collides
with snippets of physics
in conversation. Together,
this physics man and this poet find,
on a café rooftop, energy shifting
in Dallas, filling their silence
with language. With strings.