Yard Sale of Thoughts

Fried chicken,

cigarette smoke,

then chestnuts, just roast.

Dark Argarwood

mixed with a stranger’s b.o.

A wok swing dances

with a Pad Thai,

as some new spice

tickles the back of my throat.

I wait for the neon green,

but there’s no reason

to rush home.

I could be happy

in a place like this…

somewhere well beyond

the rose. Rich in complexity

and stock, a place where

perfumes are built and burst

on each block.

Where whiffs of a past

dish drift, waiting to be born

again,

a place like Bangkok.

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