Green eel reeled tight on the hook, reversely baptized, writhes in an ecstasy of tongues, a new convert not ready to die for his faith on the promised land.
Sidling down Bayard’s shady side, early sun already beach-bright, fingers scalded by large green tea hot no milk, assaulted by fresh fish on the corner of Mulberry – and, safe: fresh pork bun steams through the wax paper, my plump good luck charm.
There’s a 100 percent chance of spit gobs and piss pools and gutter spew spatter that bodes ill for suede sandals and pedicures.
I would be as lost at your Akron crossroads as you are at my Chinatown Five Points. I swim with traffic; you wait at stoplights. I don’t want to have anything in common with you, but I do (and it’s not pristine white sneakers).
Caramel ducks strung across the window, necks canted over the string as they loll in the late afternoon sun, canard drapes that reveal a pale, sweaty man with dark eyebrows peering into his large pot. I love the cheap, chipped tile floor, pale as the man, as the plastic cup with steaming green tea, and the bowl – bits of leg and neck poke through noodles as the sun shines through a gap in the drapes.