I wait on the sidewalk,
crushed left and right by
businessmen with briefcases
and school girls in sailor skirts.
Their boyfriends’ hands are
going places they shouldn’t be.
The crowd pushes forward
from behind me.
My cheek meets the back of a man,
who turns, glaring at me
through his dark sunglasses:
I’ve disrupted his phone call.
A tap on my shoulder.
Someone I’ve never seen before
hands me a package and leaves.
The package is pornographic,
but I open it anyway,
discovering toilet paper.
In this day of technology,
Japan lacks in toilet paper department.
We’re still waiting.
The little man turns green.
Everyone moves along,
across the zebra stripes,
in a sea of black
to meet in the middle
with the people on the other side.
Then I stop.
People yell.
Horns blare.
Stomped on.
Sworn at.
Neon everywhere.
I turn and look
to see myself:
I’m on the huge
Studio Alta screen.
I stare at me,
and me stares at I.
I raise a hand and wave hello.
Light melts through my fingers.
I’m alone up there
and surrounded down here.
And I know where I’d rather be.
No-body sees me up there,
and no-body sees me down here.
I turn and follow everyone
safely to the other side.
The screen image of me
is replaced.
The new, female J-Pop idol:
who the school girls sniff at,
who the boyfriends stare at,
who the businessmen secretly
wish to screw.
I am pushed along the sidewalk,
by the envious, staring and perverted.
Away from the lights.
Further to the darkness.
So many people means so little space
and I know where I’d rather be.