Like winged vultures drawn by the stench of smoldering carrion,
we’ve come to satisfy our lust for more, more, more.
unlike these black-winged marauders of the sky, whose manners are
somewhat suspect,
we follow a more civilized ritual of taking numbers, and wait our turn to enter this
sacred house of the dead.
i follow the rush to the room with books where pushy re-sellers perch,
shoulder to shoulder, before the shelves in their primitive craving
for the steaming vital organs—
signed first-editions, dust covers mercifully intact—
a Hemingway— Green Hills of Africa—
(oh, most happy day).
appetites sated, the lions lick their chops and saunter off. next the squabbling hyenas, angry at the delay, move in, while the vultures circle overhead, desperate for an overlooked morsel.
finally it is my turn, and i finger the bony carcass hoping to discover the profession, the hobbies, and the education of the person who sat next the window
A Stranger
In America
I can
walkabout
in anonymity,
a person of little consequence—
not celebrated athlete,
nor foul-mouthed rapper,
nor extra handsome movie star.
But, turn me loose
in rural Japan
and I become
a fascinating object of interest—
a steaming meteorite fallen from the sky—
causing murmurs of surprise,
“gaijin, gaijin, gaijin”
mothers pointing, whispering to their children,
and turned heads—
a foreigner,
not of us—
an unwashed soybean in a cup of rice—
a white blemish not to be over-looked.
And there, for all to see,
stranded,
me,
a tentative celebrity,
without a word of Japanese
in my pocket.
