PIGGIES

I have to stop and wonder if
there is a parent alive who
hasn’t gently pulled on the toes
of achild too young to object
and recited “this little piggy.”
And of course most children giggle
but not for the reason the parents
suspect or hope, but at the sight
of a large person turning into
a somewhat ridiculous child.
If they could comprehend just
what was said in that always
slightly squeaky voice parents
adopted for the verse, they would
point out that they got strained peas
and peaches and such, and that
no good pig, or toe for that matter,
ever ate roast beef, for they
prefer a much sloppier meal.

AN AFTERNOON SPENT

We sit around a small table
in the YAK Coffee and Beer
on the edge of Namdaemun
listening to loud pop songs
on tinny speakers.
The Hite Beer bottles sweat
dripping on the Formica table
down our backs
the dankness of the subway
clinging to us, bathed
in the smoke from the couples
hunched over coffee, giggling
conspirators plotting the overthrow
of ancient ideas, of hanboks
hung in closets, rice cookers
and kimchi ever present.
We walk past the pig’s heads
arrayed next to slowly rotting fish
and all manner of peppers
and breath deeply
of the bouquet of Seoul.