Give me all the other parts,” you say,
in between the little sucking noises you make,
cleaning meat off little white bull frog bones
with your teeth and tongue,
before spitting them out on the wooden table.


I kneel precariously on a red plastic stool,
elbows propped on the table to get a better view
of the contents in the earthen brown clay pot.


My face hovers over the still-bubbling mixture,
chopsticks balanced precariously between tiny fingers,
poking, searching, scavenging for boney bits,
moving them from chinese spoon to chinese spoon.


In exchange, you put a few more frog legs in my bowl.
This one got more meat,” you say,
“eat already can run faster.”


Just then, a car drives by and through a small puddle,
staining your jeans and getting my slippers wet.
You give the driver a dirty look as he passes
before turning back to the table.


Ladling more porridge into my bowl,
you say “Eat more.”