Neighbor’s faces are the poor man’s fun.
When we stood outside the barber shop with melons to peel
or sat in a stall with makkolli to swill,
we were friend faces all
talking about the drought in the South,
about debts in the co-op.
Why was it that a rhythm toe-tapped
to the pill-peddler’s guitar always
turned thoughts longingly to Seoul?
Go in somewhere for a hand of cards?
Empty our pockets for a trip to the girlie-house?
We gathered in the school yard; drank soju with strips of squid.
The long summer sun dipped;
rubber shoes in our hands or yellow corvina,
we trudged the bright moonlit track home:
the market was over.
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