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7th and Franklin

Flo Oy Wong
February 4, 2002

The buildings squeeze together with little space
for breathing,
Windows curtained to hold silences,
Numbers on glass doors erase into disappearance.
The Slan doy, village bachelors long time Califon,
closet themselves
In cubicles papered with worm-eaten newspapers,
Hot plates on stands, musty bottles of soy sauce
half empty,
Dank hallways host to dust-filled light,
Hiding skinned doorways leading nowhere.
Clicking of chopsticks strike porcelain bowls,
Clicking of pai gow tiles clack against hands
raw from labor,
Clicking of cleavers, smashing, dicing, mincing,
The sewing factory where machines whirl
staccato-like, piercing,
Where mothers stuff babies in corners,
Where seamstresses hunch for hours,
Pushing fabric under undulating needles,
Pricking fingers on pins, cushioning hearts in hand,
The barbershop run by George, the Hollywood barber,
Scissors and comb in his brown hands,
Sculpting ducktails smooth for young swells,
Cutting flat tops close to scalp,
Tacalog snipped with shattered English
Mix with slee yip, tongue of peasants from
Pearl River Delta.
The hamburger joints - Hamburger Joe's and
Hamburger Gus's,
Patties sizzling, ringed by circles of caramelizing onions,
Drizzled with slurpy mayo, catsup, and mustard,
Eaten on pieces of Wonder Bread densely packed
with holes,
Munched with greasy French fries half the size of a curled fist,
Not salted fish, steamed pigs' tongues,
fermented bean paste.
We approach the corner and I say, "I'm not crossing."