Saturday 8:44 pm.
lights dimmed over my kitchenette.
The smell of garlic simmering on my hotplate.
Miles Davis whispering in my ear.
I am cutting deep purple eggplant, yellowy green zuchini and red peppers into new shapes.
no one has called.
no one will call.
I wipe my hands on my apron, nibble the zuchini like a rabbit and start in on some onions.
listen to that horn line.
listen to that.
shake my head because I can.
Seoul Korea has a heartbeat tonight and it pulses in the light of my tiny apartment.
I am a whisper like miles.
air blowing through metal and tubes and subways and concrete.
can you feel me?
can you feel me there?
shake your head because you can.