Expatriate

Sometimes I reuse teabags
Thin, sweat, tea and toast
Smeared with vegemite
A feast to feed nostalgia

The table was round and plastic
Keys clatter as they land
Legs burn from the stairs
The lift wasn’t working

Stripping off decency
Hot air licks against soggy skin
The sun leaks in under,
Around and through the curtains,

On the street
There are old women
Selling sickly sweet jackfruit,
Separating the flesh with wiry fingers

There are young women
Selling furled cloth,
Kitschy colors, perilously balanced,
Growing out of the dust

There are old men
Fixing punctured bike tyres
With a bowl of dirty water,
Practiced fingers and sad eyes

And I am lying on the bed