By Missy Ward
as a long pale bed
glowing like moonlight
under a window that is being
pelted and smeared silver
by forlorn angry raindrops.
And the wind is heaving the trembling trees
while a tiny frightened star peeks out
of the cloud-ridden purple Bangkok sky
and cries
But child, you’ve never been to Bangkok
Shut up. This is not so much about
where I haven’t been as it is
about where I have been.
Regardless, you’ve never been there.
And neither have you. So
for all you know, I’m right
about the way leaves shaped like valentines
are thrust from their comfortable perches
by teardrops that echo like
deep rain in stone corridors.
