Tea

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Yesterday on Baxter Street

an old man made me a cup of tea.

It was infused with a root that he said would help me forget. As I left, four shiny

Buddha’s grinned from his shop window. A small girl bumped into me, saying excuse

me as her parents weaved through the Chinatown streets. 

I was lost, following a crowd 

with the sweet herb still fresh on my tongue.

That night in a dream I saw my dead father.

He talked to me from the end of long corridor.

I strained to listen 

unable to hear his words. 

Even in a dream we could never be close. 

Then he laughed shooing me away. 

It was time to let him go.



© Karen Karpowich

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