Bubur Campur

You heard me. Walked 20 minutes to the Indonesian neighborhood around 16th and Morris, to buy some bubur campur. On the way, I almost got ran over by a Slim Shady knockoff steering his black SUV the wrong way on Broad Street. Almost got splattered into next week. Undersigned, no, deceased. Only 4 bucks, my bubur campur. My inner ears have never been tickled so euphonically by a lover's pierced tongue. Do you know your schwa from your diphthong? I sure don't, but I know what I like. Rice, chicken, egg, bread, vegetables, the small print knotty on the clear plastic cover. I espied some peanuts and fishy specks also, too negligible, apparently, for the official reckoning. I shoved my change into the lint, walked out the jingling door, whistling. Behind that lovely tag hid a sullen rice gruel, I discovered to my infinite sorrow and shame, 20 minutes later, sitting eager-eyed at my dimly lit kitchen table.