A
Chinese
Man
A
Chinese
man
interrupted
our
French
kissing,
you
ducked
into
my
old
t-‐shirt
to
answer
the
door,
I
stayed
behind
and
covered
my
ass,
in
case
it
was
God
or
my
mother.
You
brought
back
a
brown
paper
bag,
hot
and
sweaty,
with
grease
spots
dotting
and
darkening
like
clouds
over
guilty
conscience.
My
tongue
can
still
taste
those
to-‐die-‐for
egg
rolls—
almost
as
much
as
it
can
you
after
all
these
years,
which
is
why
it
curses
me
for
ever
having
dialed
this
old
number
and
sending
a
brand
new
t-‐shirt
to
face
the
face
that
serves
me
sweet
and
sour
memories
and
a
side
of
me
I’d
just
as
soon
forget.
44