Squeeze my hand
And if you’re lucky
You’ll only be soiled
With white dust
If you’re not
I apologize for the inkblot
My feet are crowded foyers
And shoddy up and down stairs
From my shoulders hang layers
Of bag handles
Folders and books
Form my elbows
My back rests
On foamless Orocan
My eyes have stacked papers
The size of three forest acres
My cluttered head naps
On questions I asked terms ago
Still smelling fresh
From the xerox kubo
Krrrrrrr…rrrrrrrrrrrrrring!
My startled right fingers
Are last minute pages
While the left ones are chalk.
My body is lumber
While pushing and shoving
Towards Rm.6007
Krrrrrrr…rrrrrrrrrrrrring!
Krrrrrrr…rrrrrrrrrrrrring!
My mouth is greeting
But my words are not seeds
They are bubbles when I begin
Talking about plots and themes
They float and dropp and pop
On faces more vacant than blank
My queries get retorts
That go no further
Than “actually sir”
Coupled with head scratches
And the wryest of smiles
My rewards have become these
Though my throat is wrenched
At day’s end.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem