Mr. Yi’s car inched through the hutong district,

past stands of fruit, small children playing,
people squatting to eat.

Even though Mr. Yi was only forty-nine,
his father was also dead.

Heart attack. Chopsticks on the ground,
and Mr Yi, with all his money,

helpless as a pauper.

Weng thought of both their fathers sitting somewhere together

like the plastic wise men used to decorate bonsai trees.

Weng told Mr. Yi to stop when they were outside his home.

“I’m sorry about the accident, Fun Weng,
but glad you’re not hurt.

I’ll provide you with a brand-new tricycle within a few days.”

“I don’t want another,” Weng said firmly. “The Shanghai
Forever tricycle was my father’s and must be returned.”

“I’ll do my best,” Mr. Yi said. “Truly I will.”