A piece of choking tirade? An erraneous note to be combusted?
Maybe I’ll break into a dance, but no, I’m not properly
attire in such occasion. On the road, what would they think even
if I could dance really well to such a mis-beat song?
No worries about me. Look, the man and woman strand, their back towards each other.
The man, with his hands fold on his chest, keeps peering at the town’s clock.
The woman, only notices the reflection in her pocket mirror, pucks her lips
with freshly applied velvet lipstick.
Charming lady and gentleman, well-dress and presumably highly-educated,
would you spare a moment to share your life with me?
Could you look past these rags, and see me for who I am,
even if I would really amount to nothing much, not even to the rags?
We’ll talk on the shortness of life, how could we ever reveal the meaning?
I’m betting on my future. The poverty that ensues and threatens at my heels.
No where far from broke, but I’m not the poorest to be sure.
For jobs abundance in this land, why else should I whinge?
Am I just a brat? Their eyes float over me.
I should perhaps swore to busy myself, to indulge in the busyness.
The city that bustle,
I couldn’t understand anything more any more.
Perhaps we choke, weep and combust and I’ll dance to the mis-beat
in my rags on the street afterall.