Elegy for a Soft Serve Machine

Finished chanting their shanties,
and sandbags full, the fishermen
light cigarettes, crack soft drinks,
and harass the pretty volunteer
before we go to comb the coast
for odd bits of village debris
strewn by the 30-foot tsunami,
like this soft serve machine, sucked
from the seaside hotel and dumped
where the Kingdom Hall of Jehovah’s
Witnesses no longer stands. This
stainless steel wreck is today
while tomorrow is the girl running
ahead of the funeral procession,
sticking in her mouth the green
seed pods of wisteria we’ve cut
from a katsura tree. The adults wait
for us to clear the way as they cling
to portraits of the man and woman
filling urns they carry to the grave.
It’s a sunny day, perfect for harvesting
scallops, crabs and sea cucumbers
and for licking soft serve to the sigh
of waves rising and falling past
the shoreline pines, where fishermen
smoke their last and chuck
crumpled packs to the blue of the bay.

First published this day in a little Pacific Coast rag called Minus Tides

Location: Iwate, Japan

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