Classic Poem

How could I have possibly said
I'd be waiting by a small bridge like this?
For some time the trains passing on the girder bridge by me
have had their lights on.
When there are so many warm stores I frequent
on the other, bustling side of the girder bridge,
how could I have possibly promised
to meet in a chilly spot like this?
I like busy streets.
I like Russian restaurants, Korean restaurants.
I like planetariums, underground movie houses.
I like beer halls where waitresses are like nurses.
I like to watch the new titles like young girls
cramming the bookstore shelves.
I like the alley with a cook who makes good jokes,
piling up fresh fish right before your nose.
I like casual gaiety,
crowds that don't have much meaning.
And what I'm waiting for is
an ordinary errand,
an ordinary promise,
an ordinary tryst.
The narrow river unlikely to attract anyone
flows, purling at evening,
and I wait, thinking that's lovely.
In the faint dark flow
something like a lump of garbage is caught
and pointing up from it, aslant,
I see a bamboo stick,
but why doesn't it move?