The egg drop soup has come out wrong again.
The consistency is right this time —
the unfurling flower, Impressionism in motion,
lets out its pale petals for him, though
he lacks his friend’s panache.

Or maybe what he lacks is love.
He can never love himself as much as Parker did.
Maybe what’s missing, and always will be,
is that last ingredient, the one he
only ever half believed in.

But maybe the scallions are too thin,
or not thin enough. The broth too thick.
Maybe he’s used the wrong salt.
And maybe if he performs this resurrection enough times,
he will find a miracle on the spoon, and there he will be,
laughing again,
leaning over his shoulder again,
and the air will fill again with Lucky Strikes and sandalwood
and when they face one another he will raise this little offering
and ask what the recipe needs
and kiss the answer out of Parker’s mouth.

But what’s missing cannot be replicated.
The dead do not come back to life.
The egg drop soup comes out wrong.