Tiananmen

The quail egg inside my discount dumpling
is rubbery and tough,
and tastes like a mass burial.
But I don’t want to know why.

There is a familiar old man,
sitting by himself across the room
from what appears to be
his bodyguard.

He looks rich and tired,
like childbirth had taken
his favorite wife.
He, too, doesn’t seem to understand

the waiter’s distant Chinese.
All I know is he used to write poetry.
He debones his fish and stares
down the aisle of time.

Isn’t this the tragedy of man?
That we live in a landlocked city
and write thousands of poems
about the ocean.

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