The door stutters open, creaking louder
than the jingle of my uncle’s keys, even louder

than the sun reflecting off of them. Once inside
it’s early enough to see the dawning sunbeams

gliding through the entrance. He stands in front
of the stovetop of woks and for a minute, they are

as empty as the day. Before long, they’re fired up—
oil splashing, flames enveloping the next ten hours.

In a bucket, chopped celery piles. One
squelching, thudding tub at a time, he defrosts

food—from bags and bins, he prepares them
for preparation. Each spice has its own voice, even

when spilling across the mop-fresh floor. He sweeps
every last speck from the speckled tiles, wipes every table

out front. Checks pile on his desk, wedged
between the fridge and stoves—they know, as he knows

that soon the restaurant will fill with dripping
ice cream cones, pickleball players, radios flitting by

on the sidewalk like small birds. Soon enough—but
first, still morning-bound, he will fill checks, eat

refrigerated leftovers, and walk to the entrance, rearranging
chairs as he goes, and flip “closed” to “open” with a smile.