Ueno

It’s ninety-seven degrees in Ueno park right now. The cicadas are whining in their slow pull action figure tinny cries.

Last night I sat at the Auditorium bar and smoked a Cuban cigar with a wrestling fan named Shogo. He’s a regular at the bar. They didn’t bat an eye when he pulled out a giant ziploc bag full of cigars. The bartender closest to us, a young man who has yet to have a proper shave (lack of need) placed his order before him before Shogo even sat down.

This isn’t about the fun miscommunications after that saw my compliment of “you’re bright like a star” turn into “you’re like a polestar/ pornstar” by Shogo.

Nor is it about the final seafood feast I had at midnight as this chapter of living in Japan came to a close.

This is about the slow moments before the oncoming rush. “No man steps into the same river twice,” Hemingway?

Soon these cicada whines will be a thing of deep dreams and soft lined recollections. The oatmeal thick air will stay behind. I will not walk in between alleyways and dart around stopped cars. No, it will be a different life that I’m walking back into. One that I don’t know the shape of yet— but welcome it all the same.