Andrew Yang

From some long ago morning in my mind,

three white, porcelain bowls

of warm rice congee with salted radishes,

one for me, one for my mom, and one for my dad,

sit on the table, eaten slowly before

we, all three, piled into our old sedan

to send me off to my wide-eyed days of preschool.

At first, I was trying to please my parents

showing them how grown up I was and

how I no longer needed them.

It started with toast, cereal,

things I could make with a microwave.

Now they sleep in, and I

rise earliest to fend for myself.

It is Monday morning.

The house is quiet except for the water

I have set to boil on the gurgling stove.

Everything is frozen blue, covered in the

frost of the icy morning light.

I am the only thing alive in this,

the world ending in ice, or else awakening.

Down the hall my dad is rising,

I hear him coming towards the kitchen and think,

perhaps on this morning, we will eat together,

again, as it used to be.

There is silence for a moment as he stops,

then the hum of computer fans

as he turns on his laptop and sits at his desk.

I take the oatmeal from the table to my computer

and eat it alone over Sportscenter and rock music

shapelessly pounding from my headphones.