Eyes thick with dreams. Sweat-slicked seats

wicked by breeze, a cockroach drowses

in the dusty cracks between. Outside,

a fugue of motion: people, cars

criss-cross roads trundling from

Paya Lebar to Kallang, lorongs swell

with stories split from Asia’s belly,

Geylang sighs of sultry nights,

laments its morals loosening.

Coffeeshops thunder with soft-boiled eggs,

roti bakar, hot buns, mushroom mee.

Heavy breathing steams the rubbish heap.

Massage parlours re-open at eleven,

mosques and temples bear sullen witness

as brothels sleep. Migrants flit to hi-card kiosks,

contraband cigs slip from fist to fist. The bus

pulls in shadows huddled in front of shops,

then suddenly whiffs tumble in:

stale Tsingtao, nicotine lacing

unbrushed teeth, prata soaked in dhal,

breakfast kopi. Sweat ripening,

earwax, grime wiped on pants.

Heads forward. Will not move

back. Red eyes patrol the space

from seats, tracing foreign scents.

Too many already, cannot come in.

The cramped journey suspends

in stifled air. The local driver is late.

Dreams stall at the entrance.

Stand up. Rage. Go

to the back! Go back,

go back.