poem

Peek-a-Boo

It was a bright and sunny day.
I strolled on without a care.
Keeping the debtors at my bay,
was not an easy fare.
I stopped pushing the baby in the carriage
in the crisp and clean air.
She smiled at me. Gently I stooped low, letting
my lush red hair fall to
her thin thistle of golden hair. Lovingly,
Quietly, with my own pair
of scab-filled hands I covered her eyes
and then her nose. Mouthing “peak-a-boo,”
it took me little strength to push down
until she breathed no more. But the rosy complexion of the baby’s cheeks
do remain. I thought that
she looked like an angel.
Nearby a bird squawked within the leaves
but no one could hear.
Alas no one could hear.

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Chicken Feet

Sure I remember.
I remember the smog, the grey sky,
and the soulless eyes.
The loudspeaker, the propaganda,
the fat men eating chicken feet atop the pagoda.
The finger prints on the bill as it was presented
as a bribe.
The heat and pressure that covered and baked and steamed cities only to produce lumps of 小笼包
with decayed meat and dirty shell.
So I don’t understand
why you all seem to love that hell.
You love it; you praise it.
Even when it was scratching you till you bleed;
Even when it was bleeding you dry;
Even when the destitute poor cry
and all the elite –
the “diligent” hard workers that “earned” all they had
it atop the pagodas eating chicken feet.