The Far End

Leg stumps wrapped in rubber,
face down on a trolley
tied to the front
of his wagon of goods,
pulling himself through the market
with wooden blocks
he slams down on the concrete
like a climber driving in bolts,
he makes his way between the stalls
like a wounded animal seeking cover.
A Korean song, sad and slow,
like most Korean songs,
unwinds between his lips,
and if the shoppers notice him,
he’s an absence to look away from.
Downstairs, the men,
hardened, dance close.
The women bump
ass to groin, while I,
propped in my seat,
creep, a drunk to booze,
deeper into missing you.
Later, in the billiard hall,
a woman spread nude
across a piece of paper
steps down from the wall
with breasts for no one
but me.

Seoul, 5/89