The food stall owner

I remember, the first house I rented in Chang- Rai,

And how it sat just opposite the road

From an old man and his food stall.

I remember how he would stand

Sometimes camouflaged by the rising smoke from the stove,

All day underneath a little silver roof

Held by a little silver cart – that he called his kitchen

I remember when I first wandered towards his stall

Not knowing how to order -

But he served me fried egg with pork

That he later taught me to be pad kee mow

I remember that every day, as he cooked

He wore a red cap printed with “Number 1” on the face

And the cigarette clinging affectionately on his left lip

Was his daily dose of some kind of a connection

For months we exchanged no words,

Maybe a nod here, an awkward glance there…

Sometimes when I was eating at the stall,

Sometimes when I was writing songs with my guitar outside the house,

But one day, when he didn’t know I was home

I caught him crossing the road,

shaking a bowl in his hands

Calling, “Pi-casso, Pi-casso!”

I remember how I hid, crouched under the window

and watched as he fed my puppy, Picasso

and watched as he hurried back to his stall with the empty bowl

as though no one had seen that other side of him.