Commonword Blogs

It’s my last day. I’ll never see the tall telephone cables, from the corner of my eye,
where they join up, black, look like crows; waiting.
Or the
Pink, blue and yellow futon’s, hanging over balconies,
blowing in the wind, from the holler of petrol station attendants,
Who make rainbows on windscreens with their elbows, egging cars, in and out.

I’ll never smell yaki niku, as it smoulders on charcoal:
Amy, splatting me with the fat.
Or
Taste the gumminess of mochi, melting all corners of my mouth:
It’s red centre, like lava.

Painted heels scuff pavements at stop signs,
stones ping on silver spokes.

Bicycle lamps murmur under the
moon's gleam

sultry air strokes rouged cheeks
black lacquered hair glows.

It is late. Four women cycle; swap stories
from their day

dipping down ditches; dirt dashing their socks.

As legs lag, and shoulders hunch in neon shadows
Voices vesper:

Gambatte, gambatte.

Giggling, oyasuminasai, oyasuminasai

Oyasumi.