Seoul Food

Can we fly?
Do we fly?, the question
begged, as a Korean
winter swirled into our
apartment, baby
swirling within a womb.
We cried, but no matter.
Questions need answers,
questions need answers.

Singers sang in
subterranean suites;
Samoans sold fruit in the
alley and gave us Spock-like
salutes; seranades of
ajima soared upward;
bus stewards stopped for no
one on the third route 'round
Seoul, hat shadowing
steely eyes and a countenance
that only wanted to
go home.

We could go home, all right,
the doc said it would be the
last week to fly,
and the calendar became a
knell that freed. Taxi drivers
driving like salmon upstream
scared us less than the days on
a page.

Would we go?
Would we stay?

Shrimpburgers squealed sounds
of something - we should have
known - and made the
decision easy; food poisoning &
an IV type can persuade even
the heartiest to rest.

Bags lugged emotional and
tangible things that only
weighted the taxi down as it
whisked us to the airport,
through January snow.