A POEM FOR JOE NAKAMURA
No Asian people lived in my Toronto childhood
except for Mr. Nakamura,
Joe Nakamura,
a Japanese man, befriended by my Aunty Kay.
He was the doorman for a hotel
where she worked as a cook.
He lived there
(how could anyone live in a hotel?)
except for one night every week
when he would ride on the streetcar
to our house, for dinner:
meat loaf, mashed potatoes, gravy, carrots, peas,
before and after, smiling,
he watched our black & white TV
with the sound turned down
(how could anyone watch just the picture?)
Mr. Nakamura brought gifts
mostly for Kay's daughter, my favoured cousin,
English books:
Girls Own Annual
and once
Anne of Green Gables
for me
(didn't he have any family?)
I was scared of Mr. Nakamura,
his big, smiling
silence.
A few years later,
we went to see him in an old-age home
outside of Toronto-
a nice place, surrounded by
orchards and vineyards.
Older, he still smiled,
talked a little bit,
showed us the grounds
and we promised him
that my favoured cousin
would come to visit
(though we knew she never would)
As we were leaving
he started to cry.
I said nothing.
I wanted to take him with us-
Mr. Nakamura
now that you are gone
I'm sorry I was such an English girl
I'm sorry I never bothered to find out
who you were |
|  | | Takako |
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