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.