There’s a feeling of being seen through,
all the tables, all the cages in waiting.
This is what’s to do on Tuesday night,
the troupe of travelers carting trinkets
and underwear. Shoes and coats.
It never really gets cold enough here
to wear coats, but we do. In the night
market you can pick up a new fad
just before it disappears, get your cheap
Chinese electronics, VCDs, mood rings,
resin-mold jewelry, to say nothing
of the foods. That dreamy assault of smells,
smoky, salty squid on a stick. Silkworms
french-fried in herb-oil, curry-boiled
eggs stuffed to bursting their shells.
Through the hot haze we tramp hungrily
to the crepe man. His show of making
is dazzling. He sweeps the batter
with a tiny wooden mallet, spreads,
browns it in a wide circle, asks you
what you want. Pink and green paste,
chocolate syrup, condensed milk, he laces
them in, threading from punctured cans,
sprinkles flossy hairs of pulled pork.
He takes his long, little spatula, scrapes
here and there. Then he folds the crepe
in paper and it’s crisp in my hand.