That tipsy state of midnight sorrow
will not drag the rabbit out
of its hole. And head buried
in burrows of worry, neither
will you find your lost
dollar. The periwinkle flower
once blossoming strong in
your palm, shredded into petals
of worry as you stuff it fisted
in your pocket. Last week, a
hole broke, dropped pennies
for unnamed tramps. Toast
and coffee were all you could
cough up, cowering in a kopitiam
amid this towering city. Yet guilt
has no place in one's life - once
you chastened my beaten mood.
I reach out with the long probe
of a finger, lift your chin to indulge
the flame of the setting sun as it bows
its way beyond the sands of gold.
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