We hitched a ride
on a boat going North.
The elderly ladies giggled
and tugs pulled barges full of gravel.
An old man sang sentimental songs into the microphone.
I counted boxcars
On a Bangkok night,
Underneath the elevated highway.
A fruit seller waited patiently
His papayas on melting ice.
The elderly beggar man
Slept on broken concrete,
His face turned to the wall.
The Other Side of the Glass
At four in the morning
the shadow people move
silently on the other side of the glass.
and the water on the floor
shines in the light of a single bulb.
It is a lonely occupation
The pig in the Chinese graveyard
is as grey as the old broken stones.
It roots among the rubbish
too fat to walk through the open gate
onto the road with taxis and dogs
and skyscrapers that jut out of the ground
like giant crystals
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