A poem I don't understand

I like this about having written poetry for thirty years: I can go back to old notebooks or old electronic files and find things I wrote that I don't now understand. I can see me in there, but I can't recall what I meant. So the poem must stand on its own. I assume, then that this poem from seven years ago was actually from a dream. If it makes sense to you, explain it to me.

"Noodle prophecy from a dream"

Sensible custom says that when the emperor

offers you a noodle from his priceless bowl

of udon, bow your deep gratitude--and refuse.

His servant will offer noodles to everyone.

All will bow, smile, bow, refuse. The emperor,

one day soon, will need to fight for udon, defend

each sesame seed from huns and djinis and dragons,

protect our right to eat soba with smoked trout

with his considerable armies and all his myth.

But what if, tourist that I am, I accept

the noodle? What if I suck it from the chopsticks

the servant clutches tightly, testing my resolve?

The white tendon will strain and snap and vanish

between my soupy lips, and that’s when I’ll bow.

Nobody will register shock, but it will be

understood that when the time comes, show biz or

no biz, I will fight alongside the emperor.

When generations have passed since our victory,

and dinner is over, we will be legends

over the land. But if antiestablishment

sentiments foment locally like heat rash

or burgeoning technology, then we who fought

for salt and water and dough will be cast down.

They’ll revile our intentions with every slurp.

This is how time turns and stretches: it just does;

while sea to sea, people suck down their noodles

and offer the reasons they feel in their bellies.

Some will go hungry, others will be sated;

the spicing of culture will change, and all will judge.