Adjustment

A single stray pebble,
tiny and black,
in a forty-kilo bag of rice—
how oddly human, how sober,
to feel so alone
in a nation of one
point three billion faces,
most of them staring
at me, a six foot four inch
wai guo ren, walking briskly
toward my classroom.

There was a day last week
the only thing that kept me
from flying home
was my discovery
of a popcorn vendor
just outside my campus,
with his gas bottle and burner
rigged on a three-wheeled cycle;
he pops the corn
in butter and Sprite,
and I swear it tastes
exactly like kettle corn
you buy at the state fair.

Yesterday I paid my phone bill
all by myself; when I got back
I stuck the receipt on the fridge,
like a kindergarten finger-painting.
I kept thinking how Sarah would laugh
if she saw the way I jerk my head
when I speak Chinese, tracing
the rise and fall of the tones
with my bearded chin.
Then I reminded myself again
not to think of Sarah,
that in my story she’s a character
whose role keeps shrinking
as the story goes on,
until, in the end, the reader sees
she was a very minor character
indeed, and hardly warranted
the dull ache that lasted
for months, and anyhow, Tulsa
is half a world away.