Like a hurricane he walked into the salad bar.
To soothe his raging anger, he ordered a large drink.
From Shanghai to New York,
he had breezed past coast to coast, city-to-city, village to village
Without a gulp of his favorite cocktail…
“Stir gently Sir, it is nimboo pani, not vodka,”
chided politely the  black waitress.
For a moment he recoiled out of surprise
And recalled his long forgotten friends.
The bachelor physicist from India,
believing earnestly that by not marrying,
he wouldn’t have to disown his parents.
The Italian misogynist who arrogantly said,
“I don’t respect women I sleep with”.
Equal in mind and difficult in speech, the Korean engineer,
who once showed him lobsters howling silently on the palate.
Amused at the clever ploy of McDonald to mix Caribbean Rum with
Bombay Gin,
He expressed satisfaction at the shrinking globe…
The crumpled long-distance calling card in the rear pocket
rang naggingly as his only authentic personal biography…