Richard Feynman Orders Nigiri-Sushi

I think I can safely say that nobody understands quantum mechanics.

A conspiracy exists between me
And my itamae-san. I prefer that raw
Blue fish of the world, tuna, and the gray
And brown finality of the mackerel
Topped with thin rings of green onion.
Oh yes, and a cup of green tea.

I watch him as he prepares my order.
I always wonder, should I watch or read?
Watch as he slices the fish with a knife
Sharpened on one side only. Watch his fingers
Dip into the small bowl of water, then to the rice,
Which he sculpts with the first two fingers
Of each hand. He scrapes his index finger over
The wasabi, jams it into the underside
Of the fish, presses that over the rice.

No created or consumed energy. Just the efficient,
Orderly coincidence of hands, eyes, rice, and fish.

Do I bow or do I wave goodbye?

Like Xerxes attending his disaster
From a cliff, we ply the space between
Our eyes for definition and syntax.
As he, from his silver-footed throne,
Counted one-by-one the sinking
Of his grand fleet, knew his conquest
Would be but impressions
Of a throne on the shores
Of Greece.

So we ascend a stranger stair
Into an allusion of force and matter.
Vinegared rice, quarks, chopsticks,
And gluons. The anti-particles? Let's not begin,
For this is not a place for Pierre's admonishment,
"Wine should breathe!"
And what of the strings that cleave
Light, force, matter, gravity?

How much soy sauce? How much ginger?

Like an abecedarian, I try to tease
The implications of this dish before me:
Blue, long, with green edges.
Tuna and mackerel
Lined across the plate fleeing
Wasabi into ginger's tang.

Do I bow or do I wave goodbye?

How do we diagram such simplicity?
Enact the elementary with the ordinary?
Use a little soy sauce.
Ginger to cleanse the palate.
Oh yes, and another cup of tea.