She was in her 60s, reduced and faded Drunkenly standing, hands against the Plate glass window, dangerously leaning, Berating the plastic buddha who serenely Sat unhearing, in the window of the Shanghai Bazaar, speaking tumbling Words I couldn't understand Beyond the fact she was not happy With Buddha at all. I wondered if she was protesting her Loss of beauty, the greying of her hair, The thickening of her waist, once Admired by men who see the body Before they consider the soul. I thought about joining her Shouting at Buddha's customer Representative that I did not approve Of all the hurt and suffering The threats and lack of healing The loss and the fury and the Masculine torturing, the dirtying up Of everything pure, the death of Good and the rise, once again, Of evil and all those who do it Against others. I wanted to lay my hands against Fragile cold glass next to her and wail About the unfairness of a world that Could not give a flying fuck About fair, or kind, or free, Or young, or old....or me. Buddha, mushroom-wise, turned His sprayed gold head, his ears Dangling like Ebisu, lucky in the wind, Regarded me coldly, coughed the Spray paint out of his lungs And shook his head. "The Eastern Bakery has no Winter melon, two yolk mooncakes Left to buy today. It is all she desires In this world. They have also sold out Of the no yolk black bean type Which are not her favorite, but will Do when there are no winter melon Two yolk mooncakes left. She is drunk And her stomach hurts and nothing Else will do. She blames me for bringing So much prosperity and success to Chinatown - If there were not so many Tourists then there would be a mooncake Left for her at 4pm on a Saturday afternoon." He went back to staring placidly at the Woman, still standing with her hands On the window, tears running down her Face, and hitting the sidewalk creating tiny Clean salty splashes in the dust and the dirt. "It is not the mooncake that she wants. She wants an August day in 1982 When the children were small And she baked winter melon Two yolk mooncakes and they ate Them greedily, licking their Burning fingertips and planting Greasy kisses on her cheek and Telling her that she was the Center of their world." I crossed the road, unable to Listen to the woman crying over Mooncakes and time, and the Buddha of Good Fortune Listening unable to offer Nirvana, or baked goods, But knowing that everything Ends in suffering in the end.