Making goulash
we don’t talk much,
Daddy and me.
“The talking’s in the making, son,”
he smiles.
I see what he means.
It’s in the knife
meeting the beef,
in the dancing of potatoes
as they turn in the water,
in the singing
of boiling soup in the pot.
There are enough words
in the way
Daddy teaches me his famous dish
and the way he hugs me
when we finish.
Making goulash
we don’t talk much,
Daddy and me,
but everything is said.
(Ideas from Candace Pearson’s poem)
poem 詩
What can we most likely know about the speaker?