Every Face a Face You Know

This is a poem about another dream. 
           The sweet bean curd vendors call out
in the streets. Theirs is the voice of the morning,
           the ferment of what sustains. Bicycle wheels 
scrape by on asphalt; dogs strain at their chains.
           Behind windows, flicker of giant flat screens
and the sounds of sweeping. When you were young 
           you were often told, One day you'll see, you'll 
understand. If the city is crowded with people 
            you don't know, why do you see your dead 
grandfather at every corner? You know his character-
            istic shuffle, his pink fingertips. There he is, 
asking a boy to shine his shoes. There he is, winking 
            as he buys a newspaper and a warm bun.