Taiwan High Mountain to Doktor Hyner

by Duncan McNaughton

The doctor in spite of something or
other, himself I suppose, or the ghosts,
we mustn’t forget them we grew up with,
not now that we are soon to become one.
You couldn’t leave him alone enough.
                                                             Why

the color of the water dragon is
that of a fiery flame was puzzling
him. He asked one of the Chinese girls, a
monkey, she didn’t know. What’s a monkey?
She smiled. We don’t have monkeys, he said, in
“Scotland.”
                   Anyway, the same as the Sun.

We have monkies, though, he said. Wee monks that
live with the monkies. They’re not supposed to.

The way he saw it was, he said. When we
won’t have it, we won’t, will we? But right now
we do. He was reaching over to feel
her leg with his hand. Reaching over his
hand to feel her leg. He was saying, Do
you fancy omens?, when on its own ticket
the lid of the Mason jar popped. She smiled.

He could be what he was not. In this case
he was a hardboiled egg.
                                        Doc Huevón.