i've always wondered-
where do you come from?
where from springs your
refreshing simplicity,
that charming lack of sophistication.

mayhap a little country house,
done up Stepford style,
complete with a Plump Jolly Mother
and acres of meadows to roam.

& "would you like to see my home?"
so you asked.

but then it's
my shock to your pride,
my disappointment to your eager smile.
"this is my house!" is that
queer concoction,
of nails, planks and corrugated metal.
"my garden!" that tangle of vines,
"my village!" that twisted compromise of
civilization-
(there's irrigation! but those half-hearted ditches
lie stagnant.)

you haven't stopped.
"this is the first rock i climbed!
& this was my old village school,
& we used to draw water from this well."

where's your pain when you go,
ONCE I GOT BITTEN BY A CENTIPEDE AND NEARLY DIED
?

and why do i only remember
Montessori and piano lessons
(& the occasional MENSA test)?

a/n: penned during that Ubin trip. editing was a royal pain.