The rear door ajar, inside boxes piled high,
light creeps out into this cold night air.
The sound of cooking with rattling pans,
several loud voices, no English among.
Chicken by the box, noodles aplenty,
jar upon jar of spices to be emptied.
A phone never stops it's constant ringing,
a next food order for the shop it's bringing.
Some cars pull up, some cars drive away,
they're bins will be full, the very next day.
Food with names of an oriental persuasion,
eaten by customers and all their relations.
As fast as they can cook these meals,
out of the door those eager customers peel.
Delivery drivers taking food with a slip,
hoping the customer will offer them a tip.
Then everything falls silent,no bloody bitching,
it's the end of another night in Mr Wongs kitchen.
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Author:
P.H.Rose (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: December 8th, 2016 04:14
- Comment from author about the poem: i use to deliver Chinese take away for Mr Wongs kitchen a few years back One night I was sat outside the back door, it was where we would get our Delivery orders, and this poem came to me.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 25
Offline)
Comments4
An order of Egg Rolls, please! Nice job.
Ha ha, thanks WBL...
this was cute I like it
Thanks for your comment
Anytime
Read some of my others if you have a bit o spare time, I welcome any comment or advice... thanks again
Excellent poem! Great job! Nice imagery too.
Thank you chrissy
I believe we all have a Mr. Wong in our city today. I can picture you outside as you describe. Nicely done.
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