by David Tait
I
the smog is the colour of cheap lipstick.
cars scuttle along the tollway, headlights bobbing
torches that sentry the edge of a prisoner’s pit fight.
before this the skytrain interchange is a concrete
mortis lock. it holds while wraith carriages
float through sulphur mist:
they slither into siam, a firm business handshake.
people drift around below:
mosquitoes searching for silhouettes.
they dash between one train and the next,
a way home to saphan taksin or a connecting
bus at victory monument.
skyscrapers stand like racks of burnt toast,
a few have flickering lights that announce a late
shift or an abandoned budget.
the tallest of these, bai-yok tower, beams
– Long Live The King –
into the pressure cooker sky.
II
then as if composed this way a thunderstorm begins.
arcs of rouge fork-tongued blades slice open the night
and the city horizon fills with pomegranate rain.
I slide open the window to let in the sound.
thunder anchors the beat like a bass drum while sirens
and the swish of closing doors are a counterpoint
to the grunting taxi and self-sounding tuk-tuk engines.
the voices are a lunatic ensemble of laugh and shriek
as vendors hurriedly pack away t-shirts, wooden frogs,
plastic bags saturated with ripe orange/pink papaya.
beggars paper cups rattle in the rain, turning
charity into private handheld wishing wells.
David Tait lives in Leeds and is working on his first collection of poetry.
The Pygmy Giant 