Mother’s Cooking.

Walking down the streets of China-Town,

Witnessing all the markets first-hand.

The sights and sounds; the ups and downs,

Nothing looks, or smells, or tastes bland.

I sampled a sip and nibble of everything,

But I felt a sense of emptiness.

But why, didn’t miss a single chomp or bite,

So why is there this feeling of loneliness?

Then I turned a sharp corner,

And gasped at the scent.

A rich spicy aroma,

A feeling of a memory well-meant.

I whirled round to see,

A devilish but angelic,

Chicken chow mein for me,

With a sprinkling of memories hand-picked.

I remember years ago,

When I was a sweet child.

When I got sick playing in the falling snow,

My mother would go wild.

She would shove me in my cozy bed,

And sprint in the kitchen for me.

Quite soon I was on the mend,

For my mother had cooked her chicken chow mein for me.

Here I am, many years later,

A food critic by nature.

But nothing can quite beat the platter,

Of my mother’s chicken chow mein for me.