Kumamoto

In Kumamoto the bus rattled down

the street but I got off and turned back there

in the cold dark, ducked under a noren

and entered a dim room with tables where

noone sat; a young woman in brief clothes

emerged from the back of the room and came

up to me to peer in my face for clues

as though reading a street sign; with her arm

and head she motioned down the dingy aisle.

She sat next to me decanting whisky

from a round bottle along with her smiles,

her left hand stationed there on her slim thigh.

I caught her suggestion but then eschewed

a putative room behind a curtain

and so I got away only a few

drinks poorer; in the dark I wandered then.