Quek Kwang-Ee #14

Water. 

Rain, rain on hot parched earth. 
Drumming, thundering in its intensity. 
A moment passes and then two and rivulets start to form. 
Coming together they sweep the ground, and fill the gutters to the brim. 
An hour passes and then it's two, when will the raindrops end. 

Playing among pieces of sky, filled 
with commas wiggling away, using 
a cup I scoop them up and watch 
them wiggle to the sides. Then a bus 
comes late at all its sky blue sides all 
lettered in black. I leave the pieces of 
the sky, and walk away for I will be back. 

Sloshing water fills the street as the bus flows through the dark. 
Chattering children with gleeful cries surge against the walls, 
and watch the water at their feet, as it rises below the doors. 
Others chat of things they've seen, through the water that's come today. 
Of splashing through puddles on the field, and the rainbow that flew this way.


Blue and white canvass. 

Blue and white canvass on thick wood frame over a dozen red 
tables with green metal chairs. Swaying yellow lights above tall 
shifting forms. A boy in his suit walks through these trees with 
no glimmer, no glitter as all those about. No hiding gray feeling, 
no hiding his frown. Loss in his bowl, ice in his glass. Like those 
all around though richly they sup. We see not grim keepers 
though treasures they take, but gold, pearl and ivory which fall in 
its wake.