Warrior
Someday I'm going to make a movie
and it won't be about nothing,
or charge you $8.50
or star anyone with
plastic, Hollywood teeth.
My movie will star my waiter
at Chau Chow's in Chinatown,
the one with the plastered down hair,
the little one, the only one
who ever brings me the water,
who looks up sideways and nods
silent
no matter how often
you ask, how are you
The camera will light his way home
from the restaurant
reeking of shrimp and cabbage
wearing his dingy black and whites
through damp insomniac streets;
he will be lit from behind like
a crusader, glowing, meeting evil
and saying Chi!
and Chi! again
all with his gray teeth and small shoulders.
Of course, he won't use his real name and
he won't quit the restaurant,
arriving there each afternoon
like every warrior, doing what he must.
