It had been forty years since I had seen a cigarette vending machine.
It sat on the street with the other automats,
outside a shop with narrow stairs,
in a neighborhood of close-cropped pines,
sliding partitions between tatami floors,
claustrophobic fiberglass baths,
and heated-seat high-tech toilets.
A short walk further on, workers in smart dark uniforms waved off
precisely-timed trains packed with salarymen and shoppers
from covered arcades of overbright fake food,
costly dishware, clothes, cosmetics,
all still mesmerized by neon and flashing lights.
Modern Poets Magazine 