A night in Koenji

You took back your gifts,

So I put them in a bag,

together with my pride.

I smashed a beer can that day

and wept into a noodle soup.

The chef who made it,

he was so old,

he served it with a piece of cooked plastic.

I still remember the taste.

The walls were black from smoke,

my head felt heavy.

Sitting outside,

you were holding the oily leftovers from the dinner.

I was holding the oily leftovers of my life.