M.P. Powers

chop suey joint

it must be a qin or mandolin 
or something 
weaving its delicate soul around the Red Dragon 
Cafe. keen shadows creep 
up distressed brick walls. a circle of people
mingle around the flaming
fireplace. in the corner, a sawed-off 
hitman is awash 
in neon, the misshapen skull 
of his restless yes-man huffing Lucky Strikes. 
I take a sip of my Tsingtao. next to me 
there is a Turk who doesn’t bother hiding 
the side of his face that’s melting 
or his eyes jumping like amoebas 
as The Bellflower Lady descends 
the staircase; she is wearing 
saffron sequins and a see-through dress, rogue tongues 
of color licking the heavy 
curves of her supple breasts; a fang of gold 
flickering between them 
as she wanders past the window. 
behind her snow 
is dazzling
and the people are frozen.
but in here there is fire and ghosts that are alive.