Old man in Chinatown, leaning on your elbows
over an antique sewing machine
I see from your ceremonial robes
and the tassel on hat, you are Manchu
At first glance, I first thought you a manikin
staring blankly ahead into this busy street,
eyes black as cast iron
Did you lose a young wife
at the end of the Qing dynasty
as I did mine to madness for fear
I would be lost in the Vietnam War?
The faded insignia on the shoulder
of my well worn army jacket,
remnant of the war on my back
from my days in Tay Ninh Province,
reads, “Manchu,” 4th of the 9th Infantry,
but I’ve never seen a real one
until I just now happened upon you
One day when the rip in its sleeve
begins to let in the cold
I’ll bring it to you for the wisdom
of the thin threads that hang
immutably from the needle
of your pointed chin