Cyril Wong – 2 Poems

Cyril Wong

2 Poems

Smoke

I love to smoke in the dark. I love the shapes smoke makes. It is not night but almost morning. And you will wake up soon for work, for us, for me. You cannot count smoke, except maybe its curlicues that disappear quickly like Japanese spies. You told me to stop smoking since our university days. “Don’t do it for me,” you said. “Do it for you.” I count how many puffs I can suck all the way into me in a minute. Old Slippers Look at you both: Two upturned palms That lifted me Once into the gray, Uncompromising world. Hands of a clock That would point Mostly in two Different directions. Now, one of you points Backwards, having Learnt your lesson too Late, and turning Around to wonder.

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