Dear Barbara, I’ve found a place for you.
Leave the lettuce, mustard, and tomatoes in the garden.
Let the pears drop ripe from your tree.
Your robins, jays, and chipmunks will be fine at home.
Let the dogs stay with Hummer.
Come, I’ve found a place in Taipei for you.
You’ll not notice fogged eyeglasses, exhaust, dog poop on the road.
You’ll grin at the signs that say, “Don’t pee here!”
People do when nature calls, in Paris and New York, too.
You will see umbrellas, many of them.
Pink, blue, and orange. They are personalities of this warm-hearted place.
You will drink milk tea with brown tapioca, let them glide down your throat like frog eggs.
You will pass alleyways where men and woman fry stinky tofu in a pot.
It is really called “stinky tofu” in Mandarin, alright, it smells for a mile down the wind.
Customers stand in line, every day.
You will never eat the rubber watermelons we buy from the supermarket again.
After you have had dragon eyes, fire dragon fruits, and the fruits of a hundred fragrances.
You will stand in line with more than two people and find friends here, too, like you do back home.
Barbara, this place is waiting for you.