Godjira, tempura, sakura,
Tsukiji, shinkansen,
izakaya
Mara Coson
EVERY MORNING EXCEPT on Tuesdays at more or less ten past nine a plane flies off to Macau, flying northward past his tenement roof, carrying with it the screech, vacuum, and roof-rattle that rouses his alarm clock for its first snooze. He wakes up elsewhere first, this way, dragged foot and blanket to places of his choosing—feathering down underneath a straw hut in noontime Vanuatu, or the belfry of that cathedral in Tbilisi, or anything his finger finds at the spin of an inflatable globe. And he make-believes this country beside that, so that by the time the oatmeal sucks and puffs trying to ease itself out of the stovetop, a plane has flown back from Dubai and he is back again. Living close to the airport accustoms one
