Dumpling House

dusty streets
industrial, sharp
metal on metal clanking
of streetcars flying along their rails

jagged
and singsong Chinese bickering
weaving its way through
strangers, each with their own
hidden agendas
and tired set of eyes

a small open white door
modestly sitting on three, no two,
steps, from a bustling sidewalk

there's a window beside the door
greasy from the kitchen on the other side
with ads about
busker festivals
and
exhibition football games
framing a view
of a light-skinned Chinese
woman, flattening spots of dough
with a long, time-weathered rolling pin
on a flour dusted block
surrounded by a dozen
dumpling fillings, like an
artist, a beautiful palette
sitting before them

simple
off-white tiled floors
surrounded by austere tiled walls
rarely adorned with
a torn paper menu
or a photo
of the owner with Lang Lang
and his wild
jetblack hair

stained plastic
tables and chairs
with ripped,
faded green
cushions
arranged cafeteria-style
huddled close, for more
people than such small spaces
should hold

flickers of
fluorescent light
as a ceiling fan
whips the air

and it's home.

About a dumpling house in Toronto's Chinatown. The most disgusting looking Chinese restaurants always have the best food.