I caught the bus in Chinatown and slept the whole way up by 95. The driver cut and weaved so crazy, just his luck kept him alive, and I guess I believe his rhythm on that morning after New Year's Eve.
And I remember Shanghai and how I wasn't sure just what was safe to eat, the chickens pecked and wandered at the barefoot children hawking figurines of workers smiling
"What's the Chinese word for cheese"?
I watched a sidewalk butcher; his instinctive understanding made the carcass snap and clarify beneath his nimble hand, that held the knife so long, so many times, the handles' changed to shapes just like his fingers and his palms.
It's 2AM in Tokyo and still too soon to call back to the people who will soon begin the day. I polished off and I will walk a mile amidst the neon lights that advertise but I don't know just what they sell.
I tell the taxi driver
"To the park!", in a higher tone.
And his gloves were pristine white, just like the girls I used to know and would wear to
dance their first cotillion, every single one of them named Jennifer. I clutched at the same Christopher
I picked up at some country abbey long ago when I believed he'd keep me safe but it seems the luck he brings is not the common currency of a penny in your pocket.