Who is really listening
to my ludicrous deliberations
as I pace nonchalantly
during a mid-spring evening,
filling glasses with dark rum
as the moon ascends above me
Chunky clouds cover an elevated ocean
hiding incoherent mumbles with
a sluggish thrust of Yellow Sea breeze
It’s behaving like a hushing white noise,
or a full mouth of suppressing sticky rice,
stuffed into Elementary school youngsters
I should go on a stroll by our spouting river,
the one with a gray cobble stone bridge;
Wear a big smile, swollen heart and share
thoughts that always follow like drones.
The blossomed trees could use the company.
Their green leaves might nod in agreement.
By Amaury Genao