Classic Poem

Spring chrysanthemums,
— progeny of 50 won worth of clay
and 10 won worth of seed —
yellow,
red,
pink,
green,
white,
dangled pistil and stamen
in a blocked-up orange box in the window
of one of the Mammoth Apartments.

Nature breathing within artifice.

Spring sunshine came for a look:
dazzled, it slipped away again.

The dancing girl — third floor, facing block —
hung out her pink tongue-blade blanket:
she narrowed her eyes and looked across.

Above, on the sixth floor, a university student
listening to jazz
shook dandruff from his scruffy head:
he looked down.

On the floor below, the wife of the bank security guard,
hair done up in a towel,
flicked the cushions with a feather duster:
she looked up.

The old retired widower next door
changed the water in his fish bowl:
he craned his head to the left.

In the apartment on the left baby brothers
laid out the pieces for a game of house:
they looked right.

The bean curd man
rang his bell as he passed in the street:
he lifted his head and looked up.

The ice peddler
pushing his cart
wiped away the sweat: he looked up, too.

The young mistress of the house
watered the flowers:
she wore just the hint of a smile,
fruit of languorous thoughts of her youthful husband's
insistent love bites
as she pushed him off to work just now.