Chinatown
by Yosha Bourgea An overcast San Francisco afternoon. Chinatown. Pulling me by the arm, my mother walks quickly past the sidewalk markets where they sell old soft oranges, cabbages, bad radios, cheap shoes. I have a cold. My head is full of dreams and I cannot keep up. I dream a saucer-eyed dragon grinning with long, lolling tongue, breathing white porcelain clouds across the sky. They drift, aimless boats, sticks flagged with leaves and set upon the river. Old man in a jacket tosses me a good luck orange, but I miss. It bobs along the curb, then goes under. Again I let go of her hand. Like a leaf floating on water I lose myself quickly in the rush of coats. Where am I going? I am the drowning boy. Nothing to look for now, not abandoned mother, not lost luck. The current closes my eyes. -