ONE AFTERNOON

Gold’s going up, investors sorry they waited.

Diamonds too. Surely some see diamonds are just stones.

Libya’s war endless, Europe clutching the tiger’s tail. All so remote.

Bin Ladin shot dead in Pakistan. Too bad the Seal pulling the trigger won’t be famous.

Many tangled in the stock market, including clever friends.

Checking the latest quotes on their cellphones, they chat and chortle

as if texting love notes. Here and not here, they’re utterly devoted yet distracted.

The afternoon’s so pleasant it seems fake. Clumps of white clouds dream they’re adrift

over Paris. Shopping centers styled like Europe’s hamlets, so foreigners feel at home,

so children dabbling in water get used to global consumption, while the parents

toy with cameras.

A dozen streams in the fountain dance high and low, confirming their happiness.

The central jet suddenly shoots ten meters, like a magician grandly closing his performance.

A girl struts out of a cafe, tossing her hair, donning sunglasses. How sunshine loves her.

The straps of her pink bra show on her shoulders, her flipflops slap at her soles, “pip-pap”.

A middle-school girl walks with Japanese mini-steps, but soon she’ll return to Chinese

—marry a chicken, live like a chicken; marry a dog, live like a dog.

A middle-aged man from a small town suddenly finds himself in the palace of the gods,

but can’t grasp the foreign ads.

Still, he enjoys Titanic‘s theme song: new products should now be in the market.

Roped into surrendering an afternoon by my wife and child,

I find a free chair in a streetside cafe.

The sun creeps west along its arc, falling faster soon enough.

Since the wife’s off shopping, the child skating, I dial a friend’s number.

His phone off lately, now it rings through.

I thought he’d been arrested, but he picks up.

His life’s alright, but his mother’s lung cancer has entered her bones.

He’s serving out his last filial duties.

We arrange to meet in two weeks, about nothing important.