You remember me leaving, boarding that train
the third-class clickety-clack train
snaking its way out from the depths
of your fragile province.
Raindrops helplessly clinging on the train window
Lotuses frantically moving upon the rain’s
coming, and as the train pulls into
a halt, station after station,
ominous sounds of wheels
brushing past the
called me back in a strange language
and I had no voice on my own
no hasty, curt reply
to say goodbye.
Kanchanaburi, I watched you with love
as I left you in the gray hours
to meetBangkok’s setting sun
yellow and attenuated.