Nightime and raining
in Akihabara
screens shout
at nobody
in particular
and songs play on
in endless short
loops, Yodobashi,
yodobashi, even here
up seven floors
in a narrow corridor
stacked with bins
of diodes, capacitors,
secret parts
foreign as the writing
on the wall–
signs here have no meaning
for us–
we enter if the door is open,
and stare,
entranced, as small things
start to move,
or dance, or wait for us
to reach out
and divine their purpose–
although technically useless
this plastic dome
with a slit cut out
to form a toothless mouth
has us in crying, laughing
at its wretched singing,
its function must be joy–
the sentiment is clear
if not the packaging.
Outside loud neon
melts into pools of liquid
color, blurred by our tears
and the unceasing rain,
suggestive in a way
of Christmas lights, the tree
the way a sleepy child
sees it, awake if barely,
still tethered to conciousness
by pure delight
