Poetry

Just beyond the plexiglass,
Orangutan enclosure.
Mr. George sat on his haunches,
reddish-brown fur
dirty, matted.
He slowly rocked back and forth.
Gawkers came to his window.
With crossed arms,
he stared directly at me.
Our gazes met.
Those eyes,
forward-facing,
set close.
Black-brown.
No white.
Mr. George blinked and let out a grunt.
Rising slowly, he walked away.
He did not look back.

Sunrise over a Tokyo suburb,
quiet winter day.
A lone man walks, unhurried
    down
        narrow
            side
                streets.
His head down, brow furrowed,
hands in his pockets.
He pauses at the corner,
looks up —
lets the cold sun find his face.
Sigh.
The man looks down
and turns
    out
        of
            sight.
Just another Japanese statistic.