esque*

it's black tie
when i realize
he hadn't spoken in years
it takes a funeral thirteen
for me to remember
i had forgotten
his voice

monday is always a shock

He shuffles his sight line. A deck of cards. Bored. Eyes darting off to the left. Jerking back to the right. A reckless driver. Eyes off the road. Tempting happenstance. "You're a one trick pony, you know that?" he says.

i can hardly believe
he is gone
when it is so hard
to believe he was
with me all along

you try to deny tuesday

"No, scratch that. You're more like a one track playlist." He pauses in thought. He presses a finger to his lips - to keep the smile from coming out. "Yeah, I like that. Much more contemporary," he quips.

i need help
cos
i'm not sure
how to move on now
when i feel
i already moved on
long before

wednesday, everything is on the table

His fingers drum against the surface. Turbo mode. The sounds of a flat tire slapping the road. His stare is on high beam. "How long we doing this for?"

it's not like i didn't try
it's not like i didn't try
to cry

the guilt hits you on thursday

"God, you're just fuckin all 'doom and drumsticks', aren't you?" Hands in the air. Conductor-mode. When words fail. "I dunno whether to call you pretentious or postentious, hah!" Pause. Victory? No, retreat. His hands go back into his pockets like embarrassed beasts.

i'm wearing black
and he's bathed in white
but the clouds
have their own dress code
and they cover us both
in a mortal grey
i look down
while he looks up
and we're the same

friday nights are for fighting

He looks at his watch. It's time to check the time. He lifts his head up, like he's picking up the trash. "Look, I'm sorry, ok?" He turns the volume down. "I'm sorry." The words linger until they become unbearable. The next words come out as fast as a cat-litter burial. "But you must admit. You get repetitive. It's like the same old shit, ALL THE TIME."

even if he's not gone
i'm never going to see him again
they closed the lid
and clicked the locks into place
they lowered him into the ground
and placed him into a concrete container
and as if his death was not enough
for me to say goodbye
they made an arrangement
with the earth
to swallow him whole

there's a sadness to saturday

He nods. "Take it away, Romeo."

i look down
and all i can see
is the green
laid over him
and i swear
i can hear a voice
i stand there
lost in the grass
and i hear the words:
"lest you forget
and for that
you give
for it's best they get
than for you
to forgive
for it's always easier
to give
and forget
than to get
and forgive"

and sunday fades away

"Fuckin finally."



* Dream home taken by Jackie Wong. This poem is dedicated to Wong Fook Lam, my grandfather who passed away this year.