Ode to an HDB Flat
Already I miss you, darling.
There is emptiness written on the walls by the lack of posters
and forlornness in the clothes, hanging, not to be hung again.
There is hair in the grate, still,
and bits of onion and noodle in the sink
and food in the fridge and cooled water in the kettle,
but these things will pass also.
Already your speakers will speak here no more,
nor the neighbours hear your cello at 3 am;
the lizard hiding behind the bathroom mirror
will wait in vain for his daily sauna.
For who knows if the next ghost to pass through
will plug up the hole
or leave water for the miaow-miaow
or toast bread.
Or pet the cat, or forget to recycle every second Friday,
or leave the door our glorious blue and yellow.
Why, maybe they'll even clean the paint stains in the corridor.
Perhaps they'll renovate, refurbish, redecorate,
tear up the kitchen's blue enamel, the hall's green marble,
(I hope they cheat the old man
and slap the noisy boy next door)
talk to the right-hand side neighbours
and water the plants.
Oh baby!
We hence, and hencing weep.
How we turn complaints into memories
and try to make material our senses.
How, after two years of rushing about
we try to slow life down this last week,
the end of an era indeed.
Don't cry, baby!
As the ashes of one fire grow cold,
we start another.
There'll be Tigers elsewhere.
There is emptiness written on the walls by the lack of posters
and forlornness in the clothes, hanging, not to be hung again.
There is hair in the grate, still,
and bits of onion and noodle in the sink
and food in the fridge and cooled water in the kettle,
but these things will pass also.
Already your speakers will speak here no more,
nor the neighbours hear your cello at 3 am;
the lizard hiding behind the bathroom mirror
will wait in vain for his daily sauna.
For who knows if the next ghost to pass through
will plug up the hole
or leave water for the miaow-miaow
or toast bread.
Or pet the cat, or forget to recycle every second Friday,
or leave the door our glorious blue and yellow.
Why, maybe they'll even clean the paint stains in the corridor.
Perhaps they'll renovate, refurbish, redecorate,
tear up the kitchen's blue enamel, the hall's green marble,
(I hope they cheat the old man
and slap the noisy boy next door)
talk to the right-hand side neighbours
and water the plants.
Oh baby!
We hence, and hencing weep.
How we turn complaints into memories
and try to make material our senses.
How, after two years of rushing about
we try to slow life down this last week,
the end of an era indeed.
Don't cry, baby!
As the ashes of one fire grow cold,
we start another.
There'll be Tigers elsewhere.