My Poet by Pui Ying Wong

He writes so hard
on the table
that it rattles
dictators and henchmen
from the dead
and their faces float up
in his head
like holograms,
along with the belly dancer,
headdress studded
with zircons, bluer
than the Star of Josephine,
swaying her full hips
in an immigrant bar lounge
on the outskirts of town
where men from a long voyage
have not forgotten
about seasickness
or the palm trees
weaving in and out
of their sleep like ghosts.

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