Gedicht
Pat Boran
The Melting Pot
The Melting Pot
The Melting Pot
Sick in New York, in Chinatown,I go to a Ukranian doc
who gives me a shot in the arm and says
“Straight to bed for you, my friend.” So I book
into the nearest run-down hotel,
no curtains in the windows, stains
like maps on the mattress, a hanger stuck
in the top of the TV, half cross, half weathervane.
For the first few hours I think I’m going to die.
Bathed in sweat, I lie on my back
flicking between grainy newsreels, kung-fu
soap operas and some kind of chat
show where everyone is shouting all the time.
And then I dream, neither awake nor asleep:
a tiny Chinese man is calling out my name
from the bottom of a stairs, and up
where I am stretched out, a kid whose hands
are covered in food, in blood, leans over me until
his face is a mirror to mine, and smiles.
“Island?” he says. “Never heard of it.”
© 2001, Pat Boran
From: New and Selected Poems
Publisher: Dedalus Press, Dublin
From: New and Selected Poems
Publisher: Dedalus Press, Dublin
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The Melting Pot
Sick in New York, in Chinatown,I go to a Ukranian doc
who gives me a shot in the arm and says
“Straight to bed for you, my friend.” So I book
into the nearest run-down hotel,
no curtains in the windows, stains
like maps on the mattress, a hanger stuck
in the top of the TV, half cross, half weathervane.
For the first few hours I think I’m going to die.
Bathed in sweat, I lie on my back
flicking between grainy newsreels, kung-fu
soap operas and some kind of chat
show where everyone is shouting all the time.
And then I dream, neither awake nor asleep:
a tiny Chinese man is calling out my name
from the bottom of a stairs, and up
where I am stretched out, a kid whose hands
are covered in food, in blood, leans over me until
his face is a mirror to mine, and smiles.
“Island?” he says. “Never heard of it.”
From: New and Selected Poems
The Melting Pot
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