6 storeys above parking lot,
9 above sidewalk,
(how many meters above flood plain?)
I am wasting precious water
on foreign persimmons.
I should give them more soil to stretch their legs,
protect their parched roots so they will stand tall, so
this water won’t run off,
like second-hand love,
to the balcony below.
The ancestors can’t fathom why
we half foreign offspring yearn to grow
something to remind us of how they laboured
skin dark in sun
bare feet on earth.
My bare feet step on
smooth finished floor
carrying tap water from sink
to pour into sky
hoping gravity will guide it to
Too much yeet hay (熱氣).
I shouldn’t have passed up the Whole Foods
pay-by-weight salad bar for a Wendy’s
junior bacon cheeseburger, fries and frosty,
childishly nostalgic for the nights when going out for dinner
meant driving to a fast-food joint
planted in parking lot.
There are different ways to please the soul.
The persimmon sun
pleads to be plucked
from burning sky
on concubine earth
to sip cool water and roll in shade
but the earth burns too
longs to be lifted up
to catch a breeze and slip through stratosphere
to spin in space.