In the Tea House

So many times, I've watched it from afar,
It's snow crowned peak-expanding base.
Its view is undiminished in the face
of tender geishas, elders, or the poor.
I curse the distance I've been forced to stay
so far from it in rooms of common clay.

I am the toast of all I draw or doÑ
a well-trained monkey that performs and plays.
They know my name, but not each place I stay,
each name I take, each debt that I accrue,
sends me much farther from my place of birth,
and even now I wonder at my worth.

I've trained my hands to trace in shadowed lines,
and all the textures reach from what I see.
There's nothing I can't sketch or bring to be.
My brush obeys each hand. And what I find
in everything I draw is but the start
of what will someday be my greater art.

I have no place here in this house of tea.
These geisha talk of fashion and of gold.
The travelers in the corner are too old.
The poor cook is the only one I see.
He knows his place and does not question life,
lulled by the rhythmic chopping of his knife.