In Japan (After Billy Collins) Poem by Suzanne Hayasaki

Here I sit
Listening to the cicadas
Contemplating another day
Of humid heat
And my noontime trek
Through the center of a city
Thronging with vacationers
Dressed for festivals
While I make my way to work.

Here I sit
Contemplating the Busan haiku
That another poet transformed
Into a scene as foreign and familiar to me
As the beginning of Heike Monogatari
And the dream of Zhuangzi.

Here I sit
Wanting to explain that it is not a moth
It is not as plain and commonplace as that.
It has a proud history.
An aristocratic lineage.
A stained glass pattern on its flimsy wings.

Nor is the bell cracked
Or pealing in some Poe poem
Or reminding each of us of our impending death.
It rings in recognition of the 108 desires we must resist.

But all of my Japanese pedantry is dispelled
As I imagine creamy wings like hinges
Flapping like a feeble ceiling fan
In a stuffy apartment in Manhattan.