Baba is home from work

Baba is home from work
scaling softly up the stairs
The smell of acrid metals still traced
under his charred finger tips
The rustling of plastic bags
knocking his knees, heavy with
Barbecue duck
glazed, crispy caramel skin
densely packed in a
Styrofoam take-out box
Coarsely hacked red-skinned pork
salty and sweet juices
seeping past the slight opening
Stir-fried Chinese broccoli
sleek with oyster sauce
I skim the sticky rice in the cooker with
a paddle, steam warping
the glass bowl
Baba settles down, his oil-stained
uniform hung, legs crossed–
and together we eat.

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