11/11/19 by Sam Cheuk
Necessity is the mother of invention
but the city is running out of material.
Tho the young keep impressing,
behind a secret of umbrellas
the frontline dreams a catapult
from scaffold of bamboo stalks.
A friend, when in Romania, gushed on
about pep rallies students held
to sever blood debt, same two words
scrawled across the walls here,
minus the romance among
the Montagues & Capulets.
The pen, in cahoots with the sword,
marks where the angels fear to tread,
the heiress of a foodservice giant
came to know after pronouncing,
“The city can survive without two
generations,” her inheritance smashed
to bits daily by those who refuse
to honour her prognosis.
When the gas canisters are exhausted
by night, neighbours perch before sleep
by their flats’ peeked curtains, caw
Their neighbours parrot the same,
cooing for an instant into the sudden
morning like gossiping lovebirds, knowing
midst their aviary there are ears.