Near Central Park, Bundang

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The water splays
alkaline silver
in perfectly manicured watery pellets from the
fountain -
dead center of the pond.
Slipping marble slides beneath my sandals,
my flip flops,
my thin guardians of crabs and seashells- relics
of their glory days.
The life of a flip flop is not a long one-
a walking metaphor of the
holiday world
it belongs to.

Yet myriads of Koreans still venture out into the evening heat, despite
the possibility of
an infectuous tan- they hide
in the shadows of the hollows under the canopies, benches
hidden away under trees,
respectfully hidden
secluded....

This is life.
I take a deep breath beside the fountain.
This has to last, for when pace begins it quickens its gait like
the 9401 bus racing, raging through the streets packed, piled, pressed replete and
purging on into the evening, into the
city, the pulsing rhythm of flourescent
lights, of bangs ('bongs') of all kinds strewn among
barbershops (and never a quartete to be found!) and
Gucci boutiques, bondaeggi, beef (beef?) and
big noodles but "be careful", only the noodles, only the noodles,
and everything else is
THIN THIN THIN- watch,
you weight, watch
your step, watch
out for that bike,
watch the whole world around you rushing, rushing, rushing
to get somewhere, somewhere,
and no one seems to know.....

That's economic development.
That's how you get things done.

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Photos

Central Park, late evening
One of the few places in the country where my heart rate finds a way to slow down.....I wrote the "poem" at a cement fountain near my compound....pulse still racing