They are, of course, of infamous
double preparation, that’s their first
advantage for you. To begin, one must
free bean from its cottony pod.
Cross-legged in the sun,

small and large bowls arranged,
you may surprise yourself to find this
a pleasant tedium for afternoon.
Each thick pod torn at the seam
between thumbs, each fat, bright bean

a prize born of the hands’ honest work.
Too soon, perhaps, job done.
Boil in salted water three minutes,
no more. Count seconds aloud,
named and lived in steady cadence

as you consider the turbulence
of the pot. Remove with slotted spoon
to ice water and drain. To shell,
stand at the counter for variety
in your approach to devised task.

Master technique: pressing each
bright and slick and shining
from pale sheath, possibly locating
in the rhythm of monotony
a meditative solace. Anyway, there’s your

bowl of beans, comically diminished
from bulging sack, ready to cook.
It is nah-theeng, chided the old woman
at the market from behind her table
at your requested amount.

In disdain, she plucked one pod, another
off the scale, stuffing the rest into
a sack in exchange for your coin.
She was right, of course, may or may not
have understood the gestures of

eating alone. You’re foreign either way,
probably a fool. You were right, too.
So when you’ve climbed the square,
bought a bottle of white wine
or found no bottle to be had,

returned, reasoned with the chickens,
have exhausted, that is, every potential
for distraction, then you may sauté
your bounty over a low flame
in butter, salt, garlic, and onion.

They may be the best you’ve ever had,
as you sit in the darkening
kitchen and lift each bean to your lips
from the small plate before you,
as at the window night hungrily scratches.