It is the rainy season.
a cataract of warm liquid nails
hammers upon the road surface.
The thin tin jitney is sliding through
the traffic jams
gliding precariously near
yellow poncho clad mopeds
being rode by two, three or more.
The little three wheeled taxi
is packed solid.
She is sitting on my lap
as the vehicle jigs and jerks.
I am heading for Suvarnabhumi airport,
going home
although 'home' is an empty place of exile,
a land that I can love no more.
Duty calls, even for lovers to part;
she to her village and a dying father,
I to the embrace of loneliness,
a solitude that still yet brings me
to long restless nights
in a cold bed I made for myself.
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