our last hibachi

he’d feed us when he thought we needed it
though we always did
though not always because we were hungry
we’d sit at the grill
and try and recall something
to tell someone
who instead looked at the meat
or rice in the flames of his eyes
and sometimes they’d laugh
but it was about food cooking
and not a story that wasn’t ours
and there wasn’t really any flame left in his eyes anyway
just unseasoned rice
some days I thought I could hear mom
remembering a summer vacation we didn’t have
through the connecting doors
at a neglected motel
other days it was the sound of disintegrating pills
and I wasn’t sure they were all that different
or if either happened at all