SEOUL

Thursday night, and
Planet Hollywood in Seoul
is dead, more smiling
staff than diners,
the bar a well polished
wasteland, no lines
in the gift shop,
the Penguin mask
staring out over
the almost empty
dining room.
As we leave, having
consumed half a bottle
of soju between us
to the blare
of the endless videos,
they thank us and bow,
neatly arrayed in a row.
I can write my name
in Hangul and
smile in Korean.