Year of the Wasp

Doors painted red, summer night drowsy with smoke,
he walks out to the courtyard. Says, ‘Firewords,’
instead of fireworks. Apologises to Caligula,
the crossbred canine. Says, ‘My mind’s not right, Cal.’
The Japanese willow, also middle aged, has
thickened where he has thinned; scratches his head
with a sympathetic branch. He says, ‘Much obliged.’
Says, ‘Gong Xi Fa Cai.’ Apologises again.
Asks, ‘You don’t speak Mandarin, do you?’
And the willow offers not a whisper in reply,
which makes him sigh, ‘Never mind. Neither do I.’
More firewords. Somewhere, somewhere close,
people are talking in a backyard. A barbecue is burning
flesh. Cal brushes urgently against him and he
leans hard against the willow, where a mosquito
finds him, gives him an ang pow kiss
to mark the going and the coming
of the year of the wasp.