Near a Chinese Canal

Our sampan is poled smoothly.

Our wizened boatman smiles and nods.

The only sounds are gently stirring water

And now and then, small children on the banks.

Like piping birds, they gather round

While mothers have their washing day.

Looking up, they pause to wave

And call us fiendly greetings.

The boatman has already poled away.

Don't make eye contact with beggars­

The legless on wheeled platforms,

Their hands outstretched, forever pleading.

"Money. .. money.. .money" . . .. their insistent whisper,

Like sibilant wind that flows through leaves.

Just resist- don't give them money.

They will gather round like flies.

Too late- they are already here,

Breathing eagerness and greed and hope.

They think you are rich Americans, of course,

"Money.. .money .. .money" .. .one grabs your arm.

His hand looks swollen, leprous.

You shake it off, and feel unclean.

Some are frauds, born actors.

Some are legless; some have lost an arm.

Many are disfigured, and repulsive­

Badly burned and scarred by fire.

In ancient slums or crowded cottages

Who is there to rescue them?

They could be human debris from a nuclear war,

But they are not...perhaps they should have died.

I will not look into their eyes- how soon they flock and pester.

I cannot bear to look at them- the sight is sickening.

I need to turn, and look away, because I feel ashamed.

My pleasant life is in another country.

I feel so helpless in the face of misery.

We might be creatures drawn from different galaxies.

How could I ever understand them?

Beyond their urgent longing, what would they think of me?

I turn to the canal, and know despair.

Its viscous surface crawls on smoothly.

Although I had not noticed, rubbish clogs its shores.

Yet willows trail their fingers in the water

As if they idled graciously beside a temple lake.

We are alive, and human- and that is all we share.