Phở in the Fall (Poem)

When late fall begins to nip and prick,
those tiny fat beads and the bountiful broth's bouquet 
send shockwaves through every kind of sense and signals immediate and sustaining remedy in on its way.  
To gulp silk and to actually be encouraged by the host to savagely slurp, while steam forged from star anise, cinnamon, the sauce of fish, and ox tail caresses, blesses, and thaws the nasal, is the ultimate immunization from the immense and impending chill.  
At this cozy corner shop on 7th and Museum Way, I squint through fogged windows,
at the booted, the gloved, and the scarved scurrying and hurrying themselves to any kind of warmth with a name. 
I pity them,
the steeped symphony of sinew and sirloin, cebolla, cilantro, and searing Huy Fong Sriracha
facing her and my frigidness
is, clearly, unlike theirs, guaranteed the most sumptuous kind of triumph. 
Phở is Old Man Winter's mortal enemy.

From the Soul,  

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