Pui Ying Wong

Issue #
February 3, 2014


The sun flares behind the silos
    and the neighborhood wakes
in unison.

Automatic coffee pots start
    on time like workers
at government offices.

Showers turn on, full force,
    as if trying to scrub off
the dreams’ last trace.

Hydraulic garage doors go up
    without a whine, aligning
themselves with silence.

SUVs roll out of the driveways
    carrying occupants like royals,
or gangsters, in tinted windows.

Sidewalks are swept clean
    as a hospital bed,
after the patient is gone.

Newly planted trees slouch
    like sulky children
getting their hair cut.

In the sunlight, the adjacent farm
    sits vacant, keeping vigil
for missed harvests.

Someone emerges from behind
    the rickety door, and wears
that guilty look of forgetting.

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