“Dim Sum Sunday in Hong Kong”
After our long wait in the tight foyer,
we finally hear our number, first
in Chinese, then one-hundred ninety
even though our number says 1090,
on the little piece of paper they’ve given
us, not that we understand Chinese, but
we’ve just heard one hundred eighty-nine
in English a few minutes ago, so we
approach the desk and hand our ticket
to the brusk collector who has
an electronic device in her ear like
an FBI agent, then pivot to elevator “C”
past a withered Chinese lady leaning
on a floral umbrella like a cane and
numerous Hong Kong dads in weekend
shorts and t-shirts holding dark-haired,
quiet children.
The dreary elevator stops and doors
open onto a ballroom that clatters
with dishes picked up and set down
and echoes of Chinese laughter from
Asian people of various ages who dip
white silver-decorated chopsticks into
porcelain bowls holding dim sum that
range in color less dramatically than
current California food, no brilliant
green arugula or powder pink shrimp
just glistening white noodles to dark
brown, goose-infused baked pastries.
In our section of smaller tables of two,
three or four persons, however, no one
smiles or laughs like the others up front
at tables of eight, despite abundances
of amusing lumpy dumplings on white
platters, funny five-flavor spice-fragrant
page two: Dim Sum Sunday in Hong Kong
chicken feet or perfect mounded pork buns
in woven Chinese baskets, a visual delight.
The table nearest us is heaped with food that
we had no idea how to order, but both
the twelve-year-old son and his obvious parents
read newspapers as they dip into the various
sauces deftly with their chopsticks around
the newsprint pages, the boy’s sport section
preferences apparent from the pictures and
the clothes he wears: a Manchester United
t-shirt. No one says a word.
Likewise, at the other two tables within my
vision, the males shovel mountainous
quantities of dumplings into their mouths
at a rate that would make piecework profitable
for them, or, at the table on the other side,
the male plays a computer game on his lap
while both wives feed a child, one cutting
pieces of dim sum into bite-size pieces for
the two-year-old and fitting the child’s hand
into plastic chopsticks that have hoops to help
him use them. An older woman eats soundlessly
beside her son, the young man playing
the computer game. We drink our tea
as we comment on the flavors and absence
of soy sauce in a Hong Kong restaurant.
***
“French Sunday Market Only”
Sunday market, everything your heart
desires as my mom would say: Van
Gogh’s golden light shining on Cezanne’s
rosy peches in a bowl, purple figs, tiny
red strawberries of the forest.
One vendor offers slices of Cavillon
melon, another a chunk of Andoulle
sausage. There are robust robuchon
and Saint Marcellin cheeses that are
soft enough to feed to a baby with
a spoon but smell like dirty socks
as well as unpronounceable brillat
savarin, chevre, and brie. A man stirs
paella in a huge flat pan, so we inhale
shrimp with their heads on flavored
with exotic yellow saffron and mussels
as fragrant as Madame Rochas.
Surprisingly padded bras patterned
in wild flowers, and lacey panties
seem flung across counters as randomly
as pick-up-sticks while frilly blouses
and skirts with contemporary ragged
hems hang on make-shift metal racks
like a Devil Wears Prada wardrobe.
Finally, the Sunday Market over
for us, we circumvent curly white
dogs on long leashes who lift their
legs to excrete a yellow stream
indiscriminately on the tires of baby
strollers, turn left to where the car
is parked cherishing the purchases
we’ve arranged in our yellow backpack
and market basket then see the pharmacie
where Deux condoms are available
in a metal dispenser every day.
***
“red shoes”
I will put on my new red shoes
and tap dance down the stairs
of the Singapore Hyatt Hotel
just like James Cagney did in
Yankee Doodle Dandy, past
the smooth stones in the feng
shui lobby fountain and once
on the street people will toss
Singapore dollars at my feet
because they’ll think I’m
a spangled street performer
and no one will ever suspect
that my mother died two days
ago and I won’t say, Look at me,
look at me, Mummy, any more
to distract her from whatever
it was she was trying to find
her whole life.