DINNER WITH THE YAMAMOTOS IN
A GINZA BEEF AND SEAFOOD HOUSE

She does it quietly,
a lady, less obtrusively
than a hiccup...sake
spilling over steamed lobster,

her mouth, a bulb, tightening
and then blossoming
like a chrysanthemum. Rouge
from her jaws dappling
the white table cloth. Dying
so casually...how to comment?
Not what an artist would paint:
Such delicate coloration!
But there's too much pink and red.
She hasn't the knack of a Pollack,
maker, in the privacy of his garage
of well-balanced death purees
that hang in museums. He'd

be envious of this old bag:
her lobbing collective sake
over the table
for everybody to gaze at...
to admire and wear:

Old Lady With Lobster, Heart Stopped.
K-K-K-K, old lady says, grasping

her daughter's wrist, who quickly
peels her hand away.
"Pardon," I say to Yamamoto,
"I think your wife's heart is stopping."

Oh, he says, chomping his steak,
I don't think so.. I point to

the puddle on the floor,
the rouge on the tablecloth,
the lady gripping her throat and choking.

Mr. Yamamoto gazes at her. He just
gazes and keeps chewing, his jaw

moving in circles like a cow.