One night
while rambling
‘round Roppongi,
taking the tour of Tokyo,
not knowing when
to shun the shots
of sake pressed
upon me by my friends,
down Mogumbo’s
stumbling steps I slipped
and cracked my head.
Undaunted by
the bloody dent
I descended
to where some kind
soul staunched the flow
with a damp towel,
a ball cap,
and an ice cold brew.
The next morn,
co-workers, aghast
at the scabby slash
that showed through
thinning scalp,
gingerly iodined
and taped the
cut and wondered
why the night’s
itinerary included no trip
to the emergency room.
Why? I asked.
I thought the wet towel
and ball cap
and cold, cold beer
were medicine enough.