LXIV | Paper Cut

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I'm in a part of Singapore
I don't recognise.

The ground here
is yellow,

a path winding through trees and foliage.

I'm in a park.

Yellow flowers on every bush.
Mangoes on some trees.

The smell of ripe fruit and green leaves.

A cleaner in the NParks uniform
sweeping dead leaves into piles.

Her broom hisses
one word

over
over
over again.

#*%&,
#*%&,
#*%&.

I reach a bridge.

Wooden.
Also painted yellow.
With metal railings.

Over a river.

Singapore doesn't have many rivers.

Which one is this?

I don't think it exists.

On the other side
of the bridge,
there's a tree
I'm very familiar with.

This one isn't naked.

It's full of leaves,
it's full of fruit.

Red against green against yellow.

In the midst
of the red and green

is a white parrot
with a wad of papers
in its beak.

I cross the bridge.

This rowan tree is the biggest
of them all.

Its roots sink
beneath the rock ledge
of the river bank.

Like an octopus.

I wonder if it knows
how embarrassing being a parasite is.

I'm losing my mind
I need to sleep.

The parrot looks down at me.

Disdain.

Stupid bird.

You came after all.

A voice.
Can't be the parrot's

since there paper in its beak.

It is me.

The same voice.

'Who's that?'

Me. The parrot.
With the paper in its beak.

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