The Encounter Poem by Alexandre Nodopaka

Now here's a dozen plus one gringo
lounging in an idyllic setting' fit for kings
and the scene looks good as a Toyo Sesshu ink wash
because in the background
right behind the balding monkish looking dudes
there's three semi-ova-topped bay windows

from whence protrude in bas relief
a quarter-dozen half-dome mountain peaks
above what looks like yuck-filled L.A.
I mean the put on looks exactly like the ones you see
in Chinese paintings with the crests hovering
midway between Fen and Shui with a touch of Chi.

Remarkably, the table isn't loaded as for pigs.
There's only three mugs and they're painted all silver,
which means there's only three boozers
and I don't think the handsome bearded one
with the lanky face is one of them unless
the hoodlums share in. Which I don't think they do

It isn't because of poverty either
since they wear sleek Egyptian linen robes.
I say this because the fellows look well fed
and they aren't dressed in cheap slave servant rags
though I notice a few oily stains on the table but that's
because of the half-eaten croissants strewn around.

These chaps must've had some snails too
because of all the shells littering the floor
which reminds me of a greasy French Bistro.
Now let me tell you how funny
their gentile faces appear with their pink cheeks
and Roman aquiline straight noses.

They're all of fair complexion and blondish.
I mean there couldn't be a single Jew there
unless they, including' the chick, had nose jobs
but I bet two of them might be old Bolsheviks
because they sit bare feet with no sandals.
Well, you know, skinheads are what I mean.

For all that matter they could be Commies
and I'd be wholly convinced if they were slurping
Vodka from saucers of which I don't see none.
Most disturbing there isn't any Manishevitz in sight
but while I'm at it Laheim to Trotsky and
that other bourgeois traitor.