for Gog Jow Ng
ill spent on your lucky number seven
left us stranded, as his wallet
smirks emptily when the bell rings
and muddy clumps fly.
Your bankrupt frown,
only eight years old then,
palpitates anxious heart murmurs,
incessant like nocturnal babble
beyond the enclosed darkness,
lost sleep that kept him awake
breathlessly counting winged twenty dollar bills
in a pigeon meet, off course
flying away for payback.
Here they come, spinnin round the turn,
goggled cloud of flapping silk
trampling watered-down dust,
and magically he pulls a rabbit
out of his tweed hat.
In the grandstands
she ignores the doorchime
but answers the phone; her shrivelly hand,
as if not to spread bacteria
through fiber optic cable,
masks invisible words.
Ask her where he is.
In the basement
flicking the warm lightbulb off
so it wont stay lit overnight?
Or wandering about on cold pavement?
His wayward horses have finally
come in, guided home, frightened
by exploding firecrackers.
Tightly rubberbanded bundles
of lucky red envelopes burn in a huge bonfire,
gusty hot-blue flames
charring the pebbled curbside.