I am all that is wrong with the Old World,
and half of what troubles the New.
I have not seen Spain or the Philippines,
Holland or Indonesia. In the other room,
my grandfather nods off in front
of Wheel of Fortune. I have seen his Japan
in photos—the last good suit he wore,
grey, tailored in Kyushu. Believe
Pat Sajak is a saviour: he divines new riches
like water hidden from a dowser’s
willow switch, trembling through
unfamiliar territories, proffered
like a makeshift cross. The same faith
should be proof enough
of my current crisis. There was a game
we once played. I’m in it now.
The wheel turns, strobes its starlight
across another centrifuge, that spinning globe,
a kid’s finger skimming its surface,
waiting for it to stop. This is where I’ll live.
