Waking

As I dragged a sunbeam you stopped
smiling at me. Made my own morning
like a nostalgic breakfast. Found the sun
in these eggs, scrambled and dispersed.
This stanza is diagnosed with Jaundice
and not the above conditions. I escaped
from dreams, coming to terms with yellow
eyes; Things uglier than the summer heat
frothing inside me. Brushed away yellowed
teeth instead of your rays that pierced me.
I watched you, having the autonomy of a star.

Writer’s Trap

I found a poem so clichéd it was painful.
Proceeded to use a bandage. Left it where
I dropped it. Clichéd is now a pun for hurt.
It is eye-catching like how Fool’s Gold is an
idiom. By association it is a mousetrap topped
with a slice of cheese. The cheese has holes in it.
I am not actually a mouse. I like metaphors to the
extent of breaking my fingers for them. Wrapped them
in this piece, applied pressure to stop the bleeding.
Found clichés abound under the sun even though
it is nighttime now. No outer space references here.
Just filler in inner spaces without the negativity.

Homework

It is July and it is still yellow
outside. Still afternoon ebbing.
Still a bloody Singaporean tide,
an ocean of red, threads of bagua
in paper notes. Sanctioned fortune.
Sunbeams parking in window stills.
No season parking without seasons.
Money on table, in third quarter.
A sonnet in the works, on funding.
Profit-driven airs recycled by air-cons.
People seeing red before February’s.
Sometimes an orange sunset means
to go. The ERP in the room is still.
Still at home with the green lights.