When I would visit Tokyo
I often went to Shibuya where,
on the second floor of an old building
on Omotesando, a block print
merchant shared space with
souvenir vendors and artists.
I would pick out prints that were
reasonably priced, imaging
for a moment the were by Hokusai
or Hiroshige, although I knew what
they would cost if I could find them.
Still, I’d carefully pack my gems
between the pages of whatever
files I had carried to my meetings,
to insure their safe travel home,
causing my Japanese compatriots
to smile, and I would then
sneak peeks at them on the always
seemingly endless flight home.
I’m sure I spent more on framing
than on the prints I framed, but
I could not bear to see them
stacked in piles being rummaged
by tourists who knew nothing
of the Japan I had come to love.