Lucky Reds
As I bicycle along
candy
apple red
flag and five mango-flesh yellow stars on
a poster,
I
reflect on
what I taught in
class. We
shifted the conversation
from parts of the
face
to makeup. Eyeliner. Eye
shadow. What colour do you use? We
bruise peach skin
above the lashes.
They didn’t say that, but
I think about the pretty
teacher I saw this morning.
Maraschino
cherry
overcoat.
Each hanger the
taxi passed on bridge, beaded with
mahjong red
Chinese lanterns last night.
When I visited Shanghai, and
the observation deck of sky scraper was
concentrated in
deep
pink
floodlights.
Bossa Nova
Around the corner of a modern apartment
building,
green and brown
stringed lights
sparkle into palm tree.
That’s where the little bar
owned by a Brazilian is.
Inside,
you can fire up your provincial cigarette.
Leave your clear-red
disposable lighter
and hard pack,
signed in gold Chinese lettering,
on the counter.
In between blowing out streams,
Sip red wine,
sangria,
white Russian,
or whiskey and coke.
Listen to a young Zhonguo-ren
talk about
doing coke in New York City.
He wants to open up a
restaurant in Ibiza,
but he already owns an English school for children.
Have the owner’s wife,
a Chinese woman who only speaks Mandarin,
try
to teach you Mandarin.
Hear
the owner
strum the
guitar
with an unsteady rhythm.
Sings as if he’s spilling a cup.
You
can decide for yourself
if he is off
or
if that’s how it is.
I get on a public bus
and work my way
through college students stuffed
in down jackets,
milk tea,
pork barbecue
sticks,
and hot pot.
All seating taken.
I grab the strap
and balance my weight
so I don’t crash
against
other people like a drunkard at a crowded club.
.
Everybody’s
transported
the rain from the outside.
Through streaked windows,
college students peddle alongside on bicycles,
and food delivery drivers whiz by on
scooters.
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