Tu Fu Comes to America

Larry Smith

Tu Fu Enters
the Arcade in Winter

Again, no work at Ameritemp,
too cold for outside work,
so I tramp down Euclid
in the early morning light.
Snow swirls around my feet
and into pockets of doorways.
My coat can’t stop the wind
from sending chills through me,
and so I stop before the Arcade:
huge dark stones, new glass doors,
lights inside inviting me.
The doorman eyes me as I
follow a pretty shop girl
dressed in black jacket and skirt
through the revolving doors.

Warmth kisses my face and hands.
My eyes water as they stare
into a flower shop window—
Spring in Winter in Ohio.
I keep moving as though a worker
past the eyes of the hotel clerk.
The Hyatt-Regency
has taken over the Arcade
turning convenience into luxury.
Shining brass rails are everywhere;
gold gargoyles guard the towers.
My eyes lift skyward
to the glass cathedral ceiling
that stops my breath…
I must bring Mei and the children here.
Man has made this, I think,
a palace for the people
more grand than the Imperial Palace.

A guard walks toward me,
so I duck down the marble stairway
toward the basement shops
where I might find food or work.
The warm smell of baking
draws me to a Chinese restaurant.
I tap on the window
and a man turns to face me.
Quick he crosses his hands
to say they are Closed. I smile
and make the dish washing gesture.
He does not shun me but comes out
“Please,” I say, head down,
“Could you use the help today?”
He stares at me hard,
checks my hands and says quick,
“You work for the minimum—
wash pots and pans—Okay?”
I nod and follow him in
as the security guard turns away.
We cross the dark table area
enter the push doors of a bright kitchen.
Two men and a woman grow silent
as they rush about stewing sauces;
one cuts carrots, cabbage, and celery.

I am taken to the back
where an old man greets me.
“Ah, my helper for the day,”
he smiles and shakes my hand
with his own, warm and red
from running the dishwasher.
“My name is Tu,” I say,
taking the apron. “Mine’s Ed,
and you’ve got the pots today,”
and he points to a stack
on and under the sink.
“Sam up and quit last night.
You might have yourself a job—
if you can take the abuse.”
Pots and pans never looked so good.

By nine-thirty before first customers,
Ed and I take our coffee break
at the tables out near the stairs.
He hands me a stack of old cookies,
“This building,” I say, “is magnificent.”
And he, “The Crystal Palace they call it,
built a hundred years ago by
Cleveland’s millionaires: Hanna,
Harkness and Rockefeller.”
I gaze up again at the tiered balconies.
“All that’s the Hyatt now,” he says.
“Can’t enter without a key.
Rooms is near $200 a night.”
I lower my eyes to our level.
“Used to be book and cigar stores,
bakeries, coin shops, hot dog stand
out in the tower at Superior.
Now it’s all boutique and upscale.
Gone back to the rich and famous.”
I hear all of his lament
but can’t take in his misery now,
too happy to find work for these hands.

ISBN 1-59661-143-X
46 pages/$9