even
the Prime Minister’s
face at the grilling
seems practiced
for the multitudes

I prune juice
my way through three
kyoka
recalling the tall glasses
my wife’s father drank

at the conference
sitting on Japanese mats
and focusing,
finds two small holes
in his brown corduroy crotch

nothing
to laugh over on
this dull day,
I pick up a Japanese comic
only the print’s too small