We are aimless beneath the neon-soaked, starless sky of Seoul.
"Come what may," you whisper into my ear
and we turn down side alleys of side alleys
yet among a multitude.
We are alive this evening! Not upon a seat,
but fully erect, experiencing these moments!
Peripheral street vendors sell meat deep-fried
in vats of bubbling beige.
Our stomachs growl for products
we don't want or need.
Cigarettes and smog linger low.
Motorbikes spit smoke, dodge pedestrians
and seem to leap concrete pylons.
A child urinates into a drain.
You laugh, and squint your eyes.
"What's out there?"
Clouds of oily air billow from restaurants.
Meat pops on grills.
Pungent, fermented vegetables waft about.
Children run ahead of their mothers,
look up to us and ask, "당신이 내 아버지여?"
We hear screaming fights
from tired, hungry couples who can't decide.
Music blasts us, piped outside
from inside singing rooms.
With every pretty voice you ask,
"Is that the love we seek tonight?"
We are patient with the throngs of people
who talk into their telephones and drag on their lovers;
who stare at light spilling
from glowing, glass store fronts
thrusting perfect models toward our eyes.
Young boys and old men back out of massage parlors
avoiding eye contact from everyone who knows.
Rain falls and ten thousand umbrellas open in an instant.
Black, yellow, Hello Kitty, red and
white stripes, purple with gold checks.
Each umbrella bobs with the unconscious walk of the myriad.
The rain propels people going to places we create.
A cab pulls up, sees us soaking wet and honks, "Where to?"
He doesn't know we're where we're going tonight.