I.

In a small busheavy with people,

I find myselflost in a tangle

of a language Ialmost but still don’t understand.

So I listen withmy eyes and the faces around me

tell stories—

a basket besidea green field of small red

            peppers,

a courtyard witha black bicycle from the 1950’s, and miles

of road made ofstone bricks,

the footsteps ofgenerations.

I hear thebreath of a hundred

coal burningwinters,

see the gnarledfingers of labor’s life.

Sometimes theyoung stand to let their elders

sit but thedriver never comes to a complete stop

for anyone.

Pressing againstmy arm, a bundle of green vegetables so fresh

a caterpillar isstill busy.

When I was aboy, I pulled half-eaten leaves and

watched as thecaterpillars kept eating.

When I grewbored with the back and forth,

back and forth,

I would tossthem onto an anthill, then watch the frenzy

overcome theants

and soon thecaterpillars.

Boys are likethat somedays.

But standing inthis bus I am not that boy

or the country Iam from or even a foreigner.

I am justanother person trying to get somewhere­…

                        theold man from his field,

the woman to themarket,

the small girlholding her grandfather’s pant leg

            —blackhair pigtails, pink jacket—

smiling back atme.

II.

The Japaneseteacher is far

from your 101years (and counting).

Her hair is grey

but straighter

than the lasttime I saw you.

I watch as heraging fingers unzip the pocket

of her purse,reach in, search around inside until emerging

with two smallchocolate bars.

She smiles asshe hands me one, a satisfied motion

in her gesture,as though she knew

I was nowremembering you.  The way

your hands wereso exact

              when tying a knot.

The way you usedyour middle

            andring fingers

to hold  then tuck the end through.  Your chickens

in their coopsare a favorite memory, the smell

of theirwaiting, beaks probing holes in their caged fate.

I always triedto escape the shade of your umbrella.

            Onlya short distance from the bus stop to

your home butlong enough for the boys to laugh.

I guess whenyou’re a boy, an umbrella is only

for the rain. 

III.

Four fourtwo.  What a number for a Chinesebus.

Seven thousandmiles away and your baggage is still mine.

The first andonly car you bought new—1965 Oldsmobile 4-4-2—

Big, heavy, andfaster than your friend’s Camaro.

When I said Iwanted to restore it, I meant that I wanted us to restore it…

            preferablywhile you were still alive.  Afterall,

I’m not the onewho left it sitting in the Arizona sun and monsoon rains to die

a slow death ofcancerous rust and neglect. 

I tried my bestto finish your backyard.

Your shovel wastoo slow so I used a dump trunk. Many, many, dump trucks.

But of course,as you always warned, the loosely laid dirt was no match for water

and gravity anda half-assed job.  The monsoonsturned dirt to mud and the mud slid

down the bank ofyour yard.  So I proudly placed adrain pipe,

stout withconcrete!  I looked outside duringa fantastic storm and the yard was underwater—

                                    thewhole damn thing looked ready to slide into the wash!

I sloshed my wayto the drain, reached in and pulled up handfuls of sticks

and leaves.  The drainpipe groaned at me!  It actually made noise…

like the lowhowl of a strong suction,  like theyear I felt myself sucked down

            drownedmy way through      darkpipe         lostchurning   lost

   way back      lost memories  knowing only nothing

            aboutyou        thenI       then spewed out     coughing   somewhere     someone else

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