Misplacing China

I've almost forgotten it. It got too big - holes appeared, entire towns fell through them. The Forbidden City is a convoluted red and gold ribbon my mind cannot now untangle. Images float off the ink of curling maps. Snapshots flutter like flags in a desert sky. I recall in parts and pieces: middle-aged couple’s street dancing, no revolutionary strutting, just Quickstep, Foxtrot, and Bossa Nova. The young watching, taking notes, as if studying for an exam. A small one-armed boy, riding a peddle bike weaving through traffic, four black cormorants strapped to his back, necks craning out of their wicker cage like sight-seeing dogs. A quick look at Mongolia through a hole in the Wall. China got loose, it escaped the hotels, the tour buses, the itinerary. It went down a crowded alley, draped with roast ducks and paper lanterns. If I were to follow it, it might lead me to a restaurant in London, San Francisco, or Toronto, or like today come together again in the face of a girl who sells me a phone at Radio Shack.