I watch her bowing like a folded
crane on the street, where the dark
of night crushes like lead; I’ve never
known how much of a body can bend,
but she pulls herself down
till her head bangs on her greasy pants.
I think I hear the universe cracking.
Her right leg, short of a foot,
dangles and naked to the thigh.
Beside her, a bowl, gazing like hunger.
Her weight, a bizarre terrestrial
globe that tilts into a world
I can’t map. Around us, Shanghai
keeps reeling to the glamorous,
glorious in its own way. I’d love
to bring her a handful of this city,
and cross the street that cuts me off
like an unnecessary gesture. Red light
beeps, policing the traffic. Order
maintained like a fist I must remember.
When traffic light greens air
like hope, I start to march, a man
with a purpose, but she packs
her bowl and several coins therein
with a tattered scarf, her walking stick
stiff with rust.
