"A Handbag in Chinatown."
Green, dangling like an exotic fruit.
It's flashy skin calls out.
A hand extends.
It touches it, thinks of plucking the branches--
sorry.
The branch bows down.
It is so far now from the fingers which
stitched it hastily, which are also dangling like dry branches
from a tiny body, sleeping on a mattress whose threads wail,
just as the tired body does on the other side of the planet.