The new building under construction
is swathed by green nettings.
At noon time, from where I sit at my office,
I can touch the calm in the air;
the workers are at lunch
as gray clouds hang,
moving into my recurrent dreams.
On my computer monitor,
the owl’s face of lush brown feathers,
big droopy yellow eyes,
does not flinch to any intense
notes of Miles Davis’s Sketches of Spain.
Lately, I have been skimming blogs for
musings that would unhinge me,
from strangers and familiar,
at any depth and language of the soul.
I’d call for a magical whirl of the hour,
the flight of tuk-tuk, monks melting
in their saffron robes, scattering
of stars floating on the Mekong.
In the streets of Phnom Penh,
I’d like to have anything to tide me over
through my evening walk in the rain.