The Phở Man

There once was a phở place on King Street

Whose proprietor had no tongue.

Whenever you’d go to the counter

He’d reply with a “Hnnnhhhhnng.”

He’d smile and point to the menu

Offering the day’s delights.

You’d smile back, uncomfortable

Thinking, These flavors can’t be right!

The longer you stood there wondering,

Maybe I should just go.

The more the man would tell you

About his favorite flavors of phở.

He’d “oooooh” about the Phởnut

And smirk at its clever name.

Sprinkles, Icing, and donut holes,

Listed with no shame.

Then “ah, ah, ah” at the Pizz-phở,

As he mimed stringy cheese on a spoon,

And rubbed his small round belly,

Implying “this could be you soon.”

By now you can’t help but think,

I must try at least one.

The man seems so passionate,

At the very least it will be fun.

The man continues his dancing,

A chirping and mooning whirl.

But you can’t find a single option,

That won’t make your toes curl.

“Do you have something just plain?”

You say with a sheepish grin.

The man stops his raving,

And strokes his wisened chin.

He stands there looking right at you

For longer than you’d care,

Then points to a sign on the counter,

“$5 only for my fare.”

You set your bill down lightly.

He takes it with a wink,

And disappears behind a curtain.

Pots and pans begin to clink.

Moments later he stands before you,

Not blinking a wrinkled eye,

And sets upon the counter

A china bowl, bone dry.

“Hey this bowl is empty!”

You say with indignation.

He stands there grinning slyly,

Unphased by your frustration.

“Give me back my money!”

You cry, your vision starry.

He fingers another sign nearby,

“No refunds. Sorry.”

As you turn to leave in anger,

The door sounding its little chime.

The man grunts loudly,

And beckons like a mime.

The phở man picks up a pen

And a menu with a stain.

Then scribbles on the back of it,

“Nothing is plain.”