Gion Kobu

It’s not all plums and violets here.
Her crooked paint slides down
to the off-limit crescent of her back
arched over tatami mats.
She shuffles past
bowing her head demurely.

In these narrow streets
it’s easy to get lost
or trampled on
by tourists chasing a maiko.

Her back is the only thing remembered
about hours walking up and down
between the ancient brown buildings
past red lanterns
just being lit.
The folds of her kimono are silent
even as she steps aside
and the delivery truck,
charred black by the city,
invades the suspense of the Gion Kobu.

Pausing,
attention caught by glinting letters,
the camera focus crashes into itself
from indecision.
She slips into a tea house to pour sake.
Hundreds of telephone wires
tie themselves in knots overhead.