Metaphysics

For a while after he died

my father didn’t seem to

discern dream visitors, but

I was amazed nonetheless

to witness his swift and

serene rejuvenation. From

time to time I’d find him

dining outdoors in beautiful

locales, a multicolored

grain on his plate I’d

never seen elsewhere.

Yes, laughed the server,

it’s a staple here; a sort

of national dish, I guess,

like potatoes in Ireland,

pasta in Italy, couscous

in Morocco, rice in Japan

or Madagascar. We can’t

get enough of it, and it’s

remarkably nutritious.

What’s it called? I asked.

She replied, metaphysics.