Tuesday, 4 October 2011

A Dusty Tarred Road

A tarred road that’s dusty
A rusty old bus dang creaky
A perky radio deejay so freaky
Yakking away, trailing words aplenty.

How could he sleep so still,
Eyes shut, his head lolling,
Mouth opens, his spittle dribbling,
Its reservoir an unwashed shirt with no frill

A journey long,
Passing a town ghostly
Of buildings tall,
Of fa├žade ghastly,
Boxed by walls unsurfaced
Caretakers solo, facing idleness unfazed

Into a pothole tyres skipped
A jarring thump as the driver let it ripped
Awaken momentarily, he eyes her sleepily
A brief smile, a recognition she receives willingly

Sweet companion he is, in that she’s aware
Through thick and thin was her promise her dare
Her thoughts lost, she touches a ring, third finger, no stone so bare
A gift from long ago, when fantasy was beyond compare

In her mind she sighs
Thoughts of days past, of tomorrows yet to come
Of daily trudging and endless hours
Forever waiting for a weekend that’s calm
Slaving away in a country she thought her own
Born a Bumi, a Malay, a Muslim, taught, aged, all home grown

A journey continues
Of wrong turns and mistaken cues
From the speaker blares so loud a song
Lionel Richie (so old) singing “All Night Long”

No comments: