3786. CHINATOWN

CHINATOWN

The nickelodeon was spent, the screen behind the

glass was gone, and fifteen chivalrous soldiers led

the way to both time and reason. Not knowing what

a capstan was, I never ventured forth to see. The

flowering Chinese woman at the old Mayflower Cafe,

well, she was a different story : Tong War maiden,

Nationalist Party lackey, fevered yellow whore - I'd

heard her called many things like that in my day.

At the end of Mott, or one of those crazy streets,

they had a chicken in a booth. For a quarter in the

slot, that chicken somehow would dance and peck,

and out would tumble some sort of crummy prize.

I always wondered how long the chicken lasted and

how many they had to replace. It all seemed

so callous and crude.

-

That's the way it is and was  -  not much changes

in the realm of the sorry and sad. I think of a hundred

things at once, and realize they're mostly all sad.

Especially here, in Chinatown  -  or at least some

nutty old Chinatown of the mind : ducks, glazed,

dead, and roasted, hanging on hooks from their necks

in the restaurant windows; piles of hacked, webbed feet

for sale; stupefied, fat fish, rolling low in a tankful of

bad water; diners selecting their things to eat while turtles

play on their death-watch in small, plastic tanks. I have to

move on, giving thanks, I guess, for the smallest of things:

-

the light shining off that puddle, glinting its way

back to me; the little girl, shyly blowing bubbles off

a plastic stick, while her brother plays, nearby, in the

open tenement doorway and along the stoop, rolling

small toy cars along the three bottom steps.