This morning began with a small spill
water dripping from a too-firm press,
ants arriving like tiny witnesses.
I tried to clean it quietly,
but my mother’s voice came with a sigh,
“Aiyo, why do like that?”
She reminded me about the queue,
and the rubbish,
and dinner — vegetarian bee hoon waiting later,
as she works through another week of sales.
I tried not to vomit while focusing on my task,
a keychain glinting beneath my tired hands.
Before leaving,
she closed the gate and door,
standing there to see me off.
I waved,
carrying that quiet warmth
into the wind.
Bus 28 came
I hurried to the toilet,
dodged bicycles,
my bag brushing close to danger
until I swung it to the front.
The morning air was heavy,
but I kept walking
down the lift,
down the stairs,
toward another day
that asked me to show up again.
