as anglers sit on smooth boulders on the river's edge
trying to catch fresh water sardines
as bloated darkened war clouds drift northerly
and undecided haze lingers over Beitun
i sit in-between
with noisy little motors buzzing my behind
i don't see the alleged building department letter
o don't create scenarios about who rattled us and why
nor let commandments to have a nice day pester me
when it is my civic duty that is thoroughly questioned
only watered bills of egrets fly passed
nothing an ex-pat can do about sewerage back home
but hold a nose and pray it doesn't float this way
i am a fisherman, too, catching tides of attitudes
of every piece of shit afloat in my crystal stream
with patience to wait for books delivered overseas
and no inclination to spread New York disease
or scratch till raw mosquito bites and fleas
or steamed streamed love-making
without pretending love she's taking
come sit to straddle me on this bench
with sky shaped blue between us two
where old friends kvetching is not allowed
choosing not where agony rages
flowing Han-words on limber pages
ignoring all that seems outrageous
two fishermen leaving without a fish
i am staying without a fish
looking at the light in June twitching
Christmas flogged by August bitching
should i be reading Faulkner
by June's early sunset
pretending that we never met?
i will always believe i can remember that
i can always forget to
put the tackle back in the box
walk home fish-less from the rocks
still with legs to ride the river
to say 'hello' to egrets with my pen
and dream of the light in August
through a Brooklyn window again
6-1-14
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