Why I Will Not Have Children

I.

Mynahs raining around the hawker centre,
families of black commotion. Nearby, a pair
of young parents feed morsels of fried
carrot cake to their toddler. He is a bundle
of noise, refusing tablespoons of something
like congee; quiets finally at the cradle
of mama’s loving arms.

Close by, I roll my eyes at houseflies
doing the courtship dance over
my cup of kopi.

II.

I did not wish to trouble my parents any farther.
Rented an apartment, stayed out and listened
to birdsong, insomniac near each dawn. Soon,
an affinity with early arising, taking the cool
and dawn-colored parks as acoustic hall for self-
repressed strolls. Loneliness was a dog held on a leash,
walked by an owner whose long hair flamed the
color of beng-ness. His arms and legs, tattooed to infinity.

III.

Age of three. 

In my mind is an image of me reaching up
for basketball. Then mother falling
ill after nursing well my fall and cold, 
sleeping on my dried patch of urine so I
could have the clean patch of the queen-sized bed.

IV.

I will never have children, I once told
a potential mate. She remains a lover
in my department of contacts, someone
to love away the cold and lonely nights.

October creeps on the dark roof of my hair.
I wait for the question my parents
will pop next about her; 

resigned, perhaps, to picking up
a guitar. Make my living in bars, singing
with her the long and lonely years away.