Cameron Morse, “KFC Rhapsody

for Jordon Robert Shinn

On my last morning in Beijing where five years earlier I contracted myself to teach at the University of the Chinese Academy of Sciences, I take Old Summer Palace Road to KFC for a final cup of freshly ground coffee. In five days I have fallen in love again with the heavy-metal smell of the necropolis. I drink deeply from the wellspring of secondhand smoke. Lili curses and steps into the street. Near the skywalk, a dark pile of clothes in the shape of a person parts the bitter air. A pair of eyes appear pinched between hood and cowl in a slot of sunbaked skin, scarves hanging in long trains about humanoid lump of an entire family’s wardrobe of winter clothes dumped on one being. Five years ago, I broke my contract, fell one night convulsing at the foot of a wardrobe a world away in Florissant, Colorado, a chalet that would in five years collapse into night flames. After I emailed my resignation, friends raided my campus apartment, sifting through the years Lili and I spent at Beijing New Talent. Jordon culled through photos, scanned the contents of hard drives, carried away rugs, my guitar and Lili’s essential oils, leaving a mountain for the dumpster. On the walk back with my cup and croissant, I wonder if the statue’s moved, the sightless seer, omen of my return to the city that tried to eat me, ode to the city that stole my years. Because I’m still not likely to live long, I wonder if the city’s still standing there with her back to the wind, waiting for me to pass.