Ode to my bungalow
Squat, like a piece of over-ripened fruit that languishes half-buried in the mud, my bungalow - not beautiful, but cute - precariously hovers on the flood; and with each fresh apocalyptic thud I wonder what I'd do were she to sink and drop me (and my bedroom) in the drink.
And yet, for all my want of trust, she stands above the Mekong's omnipresent swish, unfussed by my unbalancing demands of peering here and there in search of fish. Each morning I renew my local wish: to pass the day serene and undynamic, slung out with some Jane Austen in the hammock.
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thielpoems) wrote,
