Ode to Ramen Noodles

We stay up to watch until the end
    of the Oscars because we want 
       Parasite to win. It does, not once 
    but four times! And this triumph
for an Asian film, an Asian director, gives
    me so much pleasure I want to make
       a bowl of ram-don the same as the lady
of the house eats all by herself
    though she told the housekeeper
       it was for her son. It's in that scene
    just before everything turns 
on the blade of a knife
       and the hinge of a sliding door
           leading from the secret hideaway
       in the basement. Her daughter smells
    the sizzled beef and thickened sauce
poured over the noodles, and she comes
    downstairs. She calls the mother 
       selfish for eating it all by herself, 
not even asking anyone 
    in the household (though she means
       herself) if they want some. 
    And that right there is what it is:
there is only so much anyone can take—
    the poor in their flooded hovels, 
       the closeted, compartmentalized:
    everyone playing costly charades 
just so a few can swim in a marbled
    bath streaked with white like a piece
        of wagyu steak. The rest of us
    will write letters in the dark,  
happy to eat from tins of dog 
    food if that means our survival.
        I saw a documentary of an artist
    who boiled and drained ramen noodles
then knitted each strand carefully,
    day after day, in a museum. She  
        wanted to slow down time, raise 
    something cheap and ordinary
almost to the level of high art.