like an old coin
in my coat
town in early
when the gold
fall like nettings
feels primitive I
rub my coin
to a shine
Spring booms outside the window,
now forsythias, azaleas, cherry,
and no people.
Day by day grass runs rampant,
Still no dogs, let alone sunbathers,
ballers or clowns.
We let it go,
let the season sling back to its skinny shed
like a lost groundhog.
No, we won’t save an ant today,
nor a stray.
We slurp ramen noodles, wash it down
with schnapps, buck up for the night.
Pui Ying Wong was born in Hong Kong. She is the author of two full-length books of poetry: An Emigrant’s Winter (Glass Lyre Press, 2016) and Yellow Plum Season (New York Quarterly Books, 2010)—along with two chapbooks. She has won a Pushcart Prize. Her poems have appeared in Ploughshares, Prairie Schooner, Plume Poetry Journal, New Letters, The New York Times and The Southampton Review, among others. She lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts with her husband, the poet Tim Suermondt. She recommends Hong Kong Free Press.