Across the frozen field,
a horse breath.
I hear a chime of bells…
a table for one.

Paper flowers,
the old songs
and words we can’t recall.
The poet is out of rhythm.

Hospital waiting rooms,
and jazz in the park.
A mother’s cowlick
squawks the moment.

Walking sticks are left
dropped into a hole.
Foreigners are talking
to a young dog, barking.

A tired flagpole slumbers,
reflecting the new world order.
Bars with under-age concubines
proclaim business as usual.

Growing quiet and suddenly still,
I can see the rice fields glow.
Shyly spreading wispy memories,
with broken and dark stained teeth.