ODE TO SHUMAI

You thought you knew why everyone called him the turnip man. You accepted his harmless offer of a nice turnip sorbet—the midsummer heat directing rivulets of sweat down your neck and in between your valleys—and when he asked if you wanted to rest in the shade of his hut, you found that so chivalric that he appeared to you then as a knight on a rampant white steed. It was only after the sun fell, you understood why the village beauties all looked shyly askance whenever anyone asked after the turnip man.