Going Home

It’s six a.m. and the brightness hurts
as I step from dim light
to the street
and the jitters start to creep as I
negotiate the moto-fare home.
 

Lee trusts my judgment;
we both climb on…
knees knocking, legs swinging
and we’re singing
at six in the morning
making our way home.
 
Home,
down the two minute stretch of dual carriageway,
home, down Yugoslavie—
adjoins two fourteen but we’re heading the other way—
heading out to dirt roads and dust, potholes
and pigs in the front yard,
quiet streets where people head to market
and the day is waking up.
 
Home to barking dogs and
stray gun shots, the whirring fan
and strawberry ice pops. Home
at last to sleep.

 

 
More about this poem
 
Another poem about short journeys and connections to a place. Home at this point was Boeung Keng Kang III in Phnom Penh, not far from Tuol Sleng. In the late nineties it wasn’t unusual to hear random gunshots at night.
 
A ‘moto’ is a motorcycle taxi.
 
The picture is taken from the ‘home’ of this poem and shows moto-dops waiting for custom under the shelter of trees on the corner of Ph 143 and Ph 350 in Phnom Penh.
 
© Ammie-oy 2010
 

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