Tin wooden motor shack, burning down the street
Fuming billows of soot and spewing seed for rain
Passengers zoom by: some in some out
Some under tires, being chewed to rubbery mulch
Rain soot. Rubber blood. Fields of fallow sorrow.
Cloud seed. diesel blood. Broken pumps for pain.
Rack
Clack
Shack
Smack
Lack lack lack
Back pack
Cougher’s hack
Sound of taxi horns attack
Where is rest: In the wheel well?
Where is consolation, the stays of stilted houses?
Along the soi; dredged in the klong; scurrying away in the gut of a five-inch cockroach?
Though their leaves serve as umbrellas
I am still looking
Searching
Searching for the banana seeds.
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