For Meg
Mr Tanaka could cry cold soup.
That was his party trick
and his terrible burden.
It stung, like snorting salt water,
and when he thought of normal folks
able to enjoy a moment of raw grief
unencumbered by runnels of tomato,
he wept twin red streams
that dried like lipstick smears.
Sometimes, people thought he was bleeding from the eyes;
once, when bleeding from the eyes,
people thought he was crying.
And so he walked from bar to bar,
winning small bets,
astonishing drinkers,
then returning to his little flat
to count his takings,
his old eyes so very, very dry.
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