LONG-HAUL
No water-bottles now –
to reduce single-use plastic,
offset aviation fuel.
My gut’s like a wind-sock.
I panic for my passport,
ask for a cuppatea,
glug it like a parched plant –
it scalds my throat –
and pack my cabin-bag.
Outside, the screen says,
it is minus five. The floor
shudders. Earth swings near
with insect towns, field-patterns,
roads of string, all seen through
the wrong end of a telescope.
TAXI-TALK
arose because of the rain.
The passenger said
that although it was wet
it was warm and so nice
to be here among smiles.
In England, he said, we don’t.
And the driver replied,
what you see isn’t the truth
of what people feel,
it’s all a façade.
We have a king, but are ruled
by generals; inside
we do not smile these days.
How can we enjoy?
He fell silent
and the tourist decided
the driver spoke because
a foreigner couldn’t
be a Thai official.
This was just taxi-talk.
NINETEEN MEN STAND
(from a photo in the Bangkok Post)
On a palace staircase.
Nineteen men in white suits,
epaulets, medals, black armbands
in mourning for their king.
Behind, on each side,
two darkly carved figures
raise candelabras against
finely inlaid balustrades.
The carpet’s so fine its plush
is shadowed, disturbed
by black military shoes.
The only women here
are naked; marble nymphs
on plinths. One laughs,
unsteady as though falling.
The other turns, about to flee.
VIEW FROM A BANGKOK HOTEL
The Chao Phraya river is khaki silk.
Small boats, yellow with blue shades
work their way upstream.
Below are the hotel’s
hydroponic greenhouses.
They grow salad for their guests
to ignore beside their burgers.
The sky is sallow. Across the city,
trees add garnish to concrete blocks.
