Another bumpy ride out to the Great Wall in a rattling pot pan claptrap
assembled from recycled leftovers, siphoned halfway across the world.
This time you plan to walk eight kilometers along its peaks and troughs,
all the way to where brick starts to crumble, turns back to dense mud.
You’ve brought along your Austrian hiking boots, the ones that lace halfway
up your calves, a Nordic stick, and you’re wearing a T-shirt that reads:
I’ve scaled Mount Everest, K2 and the Matterhorn.
Now I’m going straight for the Moon.
I dabble, sip tea in a small, flea infested restaurant, fifty strides away
from where buses collide in grey and white and blue, nibble roasted
pumpkin seeds, smoke half a pack of Five Stars and glare at a crowd:
mostly weekend honeymooners, Japanese legions with fluttering
triangular green flags that look like G-strings on sticks, and yellow peak caps
that read: Suzuki Cheese Tourist Agency. Always willing to please.
There are Germans here too, hoping to find a bockwurst with mustard,
something meaty, just like they always do along Costa Dorada most summers.
They’re miffed, reduced to dribbling, then flinging, twirling chopsticks
like batons, peanuts, flecks of tofu and rice fly too, and guzzling beer
that’s kept alive with formaldehyde, rumbling, not quite arm in arm,
but I can feel an Oompapa coming on, long before they breach the steps.
They’re hoping to catch a glimpse of an emperor, a court eunuch or two,
after the marching band and the fireworks and a stately tea pouring.
Three hours later and you’re back sporting a pinky hue, no sun hat,
and a big purple gash straight across your moon-bound heart.
You’re limping, like someone’s bent or broken your spring.
Your T-shirt now reads:
I’ve scaled (blotch) and (blotch)
Now I’m going straight (blotch)
Snapping turtles at the waitress, you order yourself a long dose of hops,
hoping it to be chilled in a frosty mug, but it comes out warm and
thick as glue. I don’t dare ask where you got the purple, but finally,
you tell me: Taiwan baby, mother’s arms, taking photo, wrong time,
slushy nearly went straight in my face. I stifle a chuckle, but can’t hold back
a light, wry smile despite myself, and you. You soon start to snigger too.
