From a waterfront bar,
I watch the sea
lap against the jetty.

A waitress hands me
a brightly-colored menu.
Every fish on it
was swimming in these waters
as late as this morning’s sunrise.

Scents of soy and chili
waft from the kitchen.
The in-house entertainment
is a young man
in a bright pink and blue shirt
tapping gently
on the kettles of a bonang.

How much of this is genuine,
how much is merely for the tourists,
is immaterial.
It’s as foreign, as exotic, to me
as the mynah bird
chatting from a branch above my head.

Certainly the weathered faces
of the old men in the square
weren’t mass-produced
for my benefit.

Those truly are lines in their cheeks.
Any deeper
and you’d need a bridge to cross them.