Yard Sale of Thoughts

Thailand in January rises too quickly,
sunlight on leftover confetti.

The days drip thick and syrupy, 
spiraling in and out,
enough to make one dizzy.

In Lumphini, the trees look lost
without their leaves,
as if there's something just out of reach
they are forgetting. 

And like them, I'm left alone with the bends.

Still pools offer honest reflections, 
but are too muddy to cleanse.

At the Gourmet, the pepperoni's sliced too thin,
and all the green fronds ache and bend,
sore knees and elbows,
from last year's rapid decompression.

January bubbles under the skin.

Mold and motorbikes,
the choke of cool nights midst
the trail of flashing lights,
like tiny insects they crawl over my chin,
circle a sushi buffet where no on is sitting.

The words girdling:
sà-wàd-dee bpii-mà,
sà-wàd-dee bpii-mà,
followed by a 
dry, persistent cough.

I wake to the marbled skin of morning smog,
and learn 
the power of my own hearing loss.

If I resurface to face the year's turn,
I'll surely be born again.

©2025 | K. F. Hartless

---

Rueben and the Bullhorn Singers “Powerful”