I Know A Few Things

The scent of Chinatown.
Perfume or truck exhaust.
The flowers newly stuffed
into loose dirt.
The fruit in its window. Tree roots
at the point of entering the earth.
The waterman. The meter running.
Legs. Bare legs
coming out from new dresses.
All the different
kinds of dogs. It’s true—they do
look like their masters. Chasing a ball,
or simply sitting. A child in a pink jacket
that’s half the size of one, a person
half the size of a dog.
The sea in its sway in constant darkness.
How it does not open its eyes.

Then there are the things I do not know.
I have a feeling I will live to be 85.
I also have a feeling, same time,
that I’ll remember claiming that one day.