After a weekend at Krapalu,

he shoos flies and mosquitoes
out the nearest door or window.

Yet he gets hot and bothered
if someone chews with an open mouth.

He’s revolted at how the elderly speak,
whistling through dilapidated dentures,
foaming at the mouth

and turns away when he sees hairs
in wrong places on faces of vintage ladies.

He’s appalled the way visitors
dribble on his marble bathroom floor.

He knows he has a long way to go
to become the person he wants to be,
since every time a Korean driver
won’t let him cross the street,

he rages: ”Slow down motherfucker,
if I hadn’t shed my blood at the Yalu River,
you wouldn’t be here!”