but it was always
. winter below
she smiles to me a bygone street
that once led from the Apollo;
remember once—
she was that bygone kid of that bygone suite
waving from the ninth floor of Toa Payoh
June rains upon a soul aboard the A-train express
from 125 St to Ang Mo Kio
and
; maybe
. there might be
. a stop for your door.
oh the piano is playing its faraways—
and the elevator streams with those
on their way to places they will be sure
of what they are looking for
but this schoolkid
. always hesitates.
maybe
; one day
. he might find once more
. your floor.
it’s a warm midsummer night, strolling
down this street, with all its crowds
tabled. standing. loitering. smoking.
and walking
down to the bus stop
it ambushes with wafting breeze
a ten-year-old heart
that sits amidst lungs that make
twenty-year-old sighs;
the cab driver on Rector St picks me out
and honks to say,
“Where would you like to go tonight?”
and if only I could reply
“Do you know the way
to Telok Blangah Heights?”
where I cried those last goodbyes
before I took that fateful flight
how was I supposed to know?
they never told
of how I would be forever haunted by every set of lights
from Fairfax Metro to Chicago
hoping your face might appear in the windows.
it snows above the A-train express
and past the rattan door the candles glow;
the jacket and suit is probably telling
the evening dress and pearls
his latest exploits in the Orient
ordering those childhood memories from long ago
to go with red wine in polished glasses
while squandering hor fun from Ipoh
oh it’s a strange and familiar feeling
to be on the outside looking in
to know the thing they call exotic
is a place known as
home.
