Sushi

The train moves slowly around the bend

carrying the cargo of neat

little packages, transported

in a continual loop

on the plastic conveyor belt.

You arrange the engine oil soy sauce

the pickled ginger and the wasabi

which produces a bright, nitroglycerin kick 

to the sinuses, a dose of self-administered tear gas.

You unsheathe ubiquitous wooden chopsticks

ready for action.

This is not unlike

clocking in

at a miniature factory job which requires

the careful assembly of a meal directly 

on the floor of your empty stomach

grain by grain

piece by piece

plate by plate.

Behind the scenes, the crew communicates quietly

achieving a synchronised kind of workflow

further breaking down animals taken from the sea

with precision instruments

providing the components you and the other customers will need

the raw materials

the fabricated sheets of seaweed

the hand-moulded rice forms

the symmetrical panels of pink and red meat.

The clients come and go as the train

moves on

turning at a steady rate

each plate covered with a protective plastic dome

which you must remove

putting to one side.

People arrive, eat and then leave

some on the leash of a tight schedule

others free to linger

staring into their phones 

while outside buses and taxies 

on heavy rush hour routes

draining the city of it's commuter blood.

You take your time

keeping an eye on the line

delaying the efficiency of production

as the crew continues to assemble new plates

seared eel, orange row 

satori mushrooms, crab 

tuna and snapper.

There are moments when you suffer from buyer's remorse

as you pick something up off the line

which you didn't really want

or only thought you wanted.

Something that looks better than it actually tastes.

The stakes seeming higher with every bite

because everything is so carefully metered out

in this reverential shell game.  

At other times you simply clasp

your hands together and watch

the plated up aquarium swim past

the fish and octopus and eels

mechanised into this new food chain. 

You pinch and hoist the small cylinders and cubes 

across the empty space between 

the little plastic platforms and 
your mouth, where molars and canines wait.

Your stomach slowly begins to fill up

piece by piece

grain by grain as

Country & Western music 
plays through over-taxed speakers. 

The crew removes unwanted offerings

handing them through the steaming hatch

to the waiting dishwasher 

who in turn, circulates hot flatware

back onto the restaurant floor.

And when you have stack of 10 empty plates

and an additional empty bowl which contained miso

it is time to pay.

They have a golden cat figurine waiting at the register

a maneki-neko.

They say it brings good luck.

The cat smiles and waves goodbye as you collect your

change and a little candy 

that tastes like a Granny Smith apple

exploding on the end of your tongue.