Bangkok's goodnight 
is also its hello.
Skyscraper lights peel
like pieces of pomelo.

Headphones, cellphones
walking malls, sawadeekas.
Day and night,
the same pop songs.

Sky lightening,
skin whitening,
in the land of 'mights,'
full bottle nights, and
elephant skin dawnings.

Buried deep below
the brown and gold,
the shoulder smocks, the smoke depots,
the 24-hour sensory overload

is a glow.
The locals call it zen
amidst a stream of foreign tongues,
and endless stairway rungs.

A sudden downpour
pauses the centripetal flow,
but the commute starts
again before it's done.

© 2024 | K.F. Hartless


Paris Paloma “The Warmth”

4 responses to “Centripetal”

  1. wonderful poem

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you, Beth. 🙏

      Liked by 1 person

  2. Love this K!

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you kindly, worms. I am starting to find my way around a bit, but it’s the sort of place you can never be too familiar with as it changes rapidly.

      Liked by 1 person

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