This is the Poem

This is the poem where I tell you about
the knot in my throat when we left our kid
for three weeks amongst strangers who
promised they’d remind him to brush his teeth.

This is the poem where I describe the last hug
where he patted me on the back several times
and, as you probably know, I wasn’t able to
tell him anything.

This is the poem where I tell you about
how he yelled at us for reminding him
a third time to write postcards to people
who love him.

This is the poem you may have read before
or written yourself when you’ve come to
these times where these things happen.
They grow up so fast. They grow up so tall.

The doctor says he might be five foot six
someday, which is taller than any of his
immediate family. We hope it doesn’t happen

while we’re away. We’re going to Japan
to feel like giants. This is the poem where
we go away to Japan, leaving our son
for what seems like a thousand years.

Caution

I desperately want to hold Addie’s hand
as we walk to meet our tour bus, but
we read somewhere that public displays
of affection are not as well received as
the slurping sound you make when you
suck ramen noodles into your mouth.
I don’t know what I did to deserve this life
this hotel breakfast, this ability to be
in this place, this nearby hand and its
magnetic pull to my own.

The breakfast buffet at the Hilton, Shinjuku is the stuff of champions.

I consider you all to be champions
so, by all means, make your way here
and have at it.

The coffee at the breakfast buffet
at the Hilton, Shinjuku, in Tokyo, Japan,
formerly known as Edo

is the sacred beverage of champions.
You already know how I feel about you
and let’s all be grateful I caught the

spelling error and we are left with
champions instead of the
French word for mushrooms.

At Meiji Shrine

Long path from train
through gates, large like trees
A sea of umbrellas come

to visit the enshrined souls of
Emperor Meiji and his consort
the empress.

We wash hands
ritually like before a Jewish meal.
We bow and clap.

We drop coins in box.
People hang votive wood notes
like prayers in a Western Wall.

This is not an ancient place
But it is quiet like history.
Until young boy with his

bird sounds video game
forces us to move to a
more quiet corner.

The soul of the emperor
is broken up by rain drops.
We take him away in our wet clothes.

Faith

If I take a picture of a mountain
and tell you it is Mount Fuji
would you believe me?

Nishiki Market

Nishiki market sells
everything you can imagine
and a lot of things your
imagination has not
come up with yet
but that will haunt you
for the rest of your life.

Obi Dobi Do

Addie has been judging the amount of food
she’s taken in today, by how tight the kimono belt
feels wrapped around her. I think she called it
an obi. The obi (pronounced ooh-bee) sits below the
booby (pronounced boo-bee). I think a letter is
removed as you get lower on the body
kind of like a reverse zipper song.
A zipper song is not a song about zippers
(though it could be) but rather a song where
one word or line of the song changes to
create a new verse, where the rest of the words
remain the same. Zipper songs are great
for sing-alongs because once you know
how it goes, you can easily change one
word or phrase without learning an entirely
new verse. If you’d like to know more about
zipper songs, try doing a search on the internet.
This is a book about Japan and I’ve run out of
space to continue this kind of tangent.

poem

Today the racist who
runs my country

told people,
elected officials,

to go back to where
they came from.

Today I go to Hiroshima
to apologize for

yet another thing.