A Hunch And a Dog


One day, I may have the chance to grow old
like the senile lady in front of my house.
I may have a dog, a stairwell, a handrail,
precede and brace me to my dwelling,
but definitely I will not have you
laying a hand ahead of me.
I may have kids running around in my house,
popping in, popping out, everyday
to say a morning hi,
but definitely I will not have you
making the tea by my window in sunshine.

You merely, ephemerally,
appeared once in my life, afar;
I merely, ephemerally,
appeared once in your memory of mortal.

While sometimes I go out for a walk with my dog,
on my routine street in the evening,
the young chasing around, running across me,
friends talking away, passing by me,
I remember this is how I used to be
when I was in my twenties.
They may happen to say a passing hi to me, when they notice
a hunch and a dog.
Then, I hinder, turn around,
with a brilliant smile of ephemerality,
shimmering like yours,
like when you first saw a stranger of me
standing at your door of immortal.

24.08.2003, 10:55 pm, Sun.


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© Lau Tiam Kok