中犬ハチ公

I get into a Toyota Corolla parked in an American suburban household’s garage.

Hachiko Crossing is shed from a single hair follicle.

I’m in the middle of the desert driving along wide, SUV-sprinkled roads.

The Yamanote Line gets swallowed with my saliva.

I swing by a drive-thru fast food establishment.

A shokunin sushi master slips out of my pocket.

I stroll through mega-aisles at mega-warehouses lined with Korean appliances.

A Togoshi Ginza gift shop flakes off like dry skin.

I flip on a TV set: another home invasion and a murder.

A Meguro River sakura petal detaches from a tree branch and shrivels.

I jog on a treadmill on carpeted floors.

A Shibuya studio-trained house dancer is pushed out of my sweat glands.

I buy avocados imported from Mexico and shrimp imported from Thailand.

A Fukushima-radiated tomato rolls out of my bag and splats on the floor.

I take a shower.

And a steaming hot furo flies off like a broken fingernail.

I dress myself in muted tones and Uggs.

And a Harajuku girl comes out with my menstrual flow.

The Japanostalgia eats me up.

An obi, yakitori skewer, salaryman, OL, otaku, Osaki station jingle, ubervending machine, Franco-Japanese bakery, manga, soba noodle, and izakaya run down my cheeks as tears.

I’m interned in the hospital.

Chuken Hachiko dutifully awaits me at Shibuya Station.