HAPPINESS WAS A CHINESE MEAL

And, you know, at the end
Happiness was a chinese meal
served by an ugly man,
wearing a thick moustache,
who could not be called Lu
under any circumstance,
I mean the man, not the moustache,
and the crisscrossing of car paths, as well,
and the last-minute calls, between
the frustration of facing your empty chair
and the almost unbearable joy
of knowing you were finally coming,
and a prawn chop-suey
that came too late for me
and too early for you,
and needed to be sent back
to that unimaginable kitchen
(to be kept warm),
just as I sent forward my love
to your unimaginable heart
(for pretty much the same reason!),
and you finally came and saved
my rapidly sinking heart
and made my life unbearably happy
just by being here when I least expected,
as I watched you eating 
your overcooked prawns
with a glorious smile, scorted only
by dragons and pandas and chinese lanterns,
in a time when milenary Great Walls
had not yet being invented