A Scene in the Wind.

In darkening hues of cyan
and midnight,

the rain pelts down with
a static intensity.

It claws the window, deck
boards stripped of

their polyurethane, meant
to withstand

an onslaught: I can't smell
the moisture rising

up from anticipations of
soil, so what harm

is the commotion: as I view
silver images of Tokyo,

a son pour windfuls of sake
in his father's hand

stranded in a nomad's isle
of capital enterprise,

and I remember the simple
flavour of tonkatsu.