I died slowly on the streets of Beijing
driving a pedicab for fourteen hours straight
my cigarettes fell from the chest pocket of my grey, black-striped corduroy shirt
sleeves rolled halfway up, hanging just underneath my ever-arching elbows
they were of the brand of the golden tiger, with golden tips to bring to your lips.
they will find my work in my room, someday it will be known
I greet the tiger as we lie on the ground all gravel, litter, people gathering
he holds the same magnificent stance as always
before we go, let me know
how do you do what you do