Ginkos abound with burlap rap.
Rising sun burns white,
through an shoji’s gap.
Now as caffeine touches
my heart,
I view a painted woman
in a quick little rickshaw cart.
Your voice comes to me from
a lime green phone.
On knees,musical instrument making
tools a single old man must hone.
Tiny fish pierced in
bamboo packages with bone.
I touch Shinto shrines from other ages.
I do try to listen to the granite sages.
Cross hatched traffic and ravens soar.
Paintings speaking of clan lore
and war.
All lumber yards, homage to wood.
White gloves clean a Mitsubichi’s hood.
Eating ageless clams the size of my fingernail.
I want to move slow like the periwinkle snail,
of course,
Now Shin Yokohama buzzes with E-Mail.
With the current pace of Tokyo,
I must rush now to put an end
to this split toe tale.
