Keith Francese Dong Seoul Bus Terminal, Monday, 5:30 a.m. This is where the clouds for the remainder of the day are first made. From the steam escaping the green tarp breakfast tents lining the walk. From the row of taxi cabs, the drivers standing behind doors ajar, smoking, waiting for the still morning to turn the empty lights atop their roofs off. The sky is yawning and her eyes are fixed on mine this woman standing before me on the walk             in a cloud This woman now, suddenly, stranger. Standing just beyond arms reach. Only an hour before draped, clung, her damp skin, latched by the teeth, to mine. Now, clouds billowing, buses leaving, a handshake. a certain degree of self-loathing call it this Boston rain, or that liquid lunch,             three full courses in two hours, but I am quite certain that I am the asshole in this place. my cuticle is bleeding on my right thumb and I don't think I want to go back and sit at my office desk ever again. perhaps, perhaps, that lady in the park tree singing her chirpy little songs is singing just for me.