Here I sit, 100 years later,
writing and rewriting this poem that will bring them justice
this poem that will bring them back to life
so they may finally rest peacefully.

This poem that builds new gates to Chinatown
that lock only from the inside,

this poem that will save the world

or at least the part of it that needed to be saved
back then.

Here I sit, 100 years later,
with a cup of tea
a cup that once hung with other trinkets in the same buildings
where hallways once brimmed with fear
from punishment for only living.

Leaves on the bottom that were bought
on the same streets where men once fled
because fleeing was a way of life.

Leaves that somehow still spell the names of streets once populated
by the quickened footsteps of borrowed memories
and dreams only living in brushstrokes.

Leaves that found their origin where
men were once unwillingly returned,

and here I sit drinking tea
writing poetry
knowing I will never have to leave.

I sit,
here, trying to remember where I was a century ago
as this poem was starting to be written
as lives still hung in the balance

Chinatown 3