Context: She dislikes mashed potatoes. She’d starve, or consume just fries, but won’t ever touch mashed potatoes.
The steam trays are lined at the university dining hall,
Where options are weighed under fluorescent glare.
The seasoned non-veg offers nothing to her at all,
Bypassed completely, for none of it is Halal,
Leaving her scanning the food layout with care.
She looks for the sides where the rosemary blends,
Or the crisp, seasoned skin of a potato baked slow,
The ever-steady reliance on which it depends,
To somehow navigate choices the menu extends,
The safest sanctuary the university kitchens bestow.
But let the glass counters run empty and bare,
Until the mashed potatoes are the only item left,
She won’t ever touch ’em, she leaves ’em right there,
An absolute boundary that she can openly swear,
Of taste and of texture completely bereft.
She’ll settle for french fries, unbacked and alone,
A solitary basket packed with nothing beside.
A stubborn precision so fiercely her own,
A minor detail through the distance made known,
A boundary line where her habits abide.
I observe these truths from half a world away,
The small, rigid choices that dictate the work day.
If her shadow ever falls on this digital space,
She’ll see that the verses remember her face.
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