By Ping Yi
The pump and filter thrum beside the pool,
day’s light slicing into giggling water,
bouncing off detritus and tiles pale blue.
Ripples lap the drain where mynas frolic,
diesel fumes wafting by as school buses
lug their charges off to be enlightened,
parents waving with quiet glee. Parents,
who let their young befoul the pool, soil, foil
us who merely need our exercise, not
to catch hand-foot-mouth sick, viral scum from
the lords and ladies, who stop mid-lane as
whim pleases, holler beneath moonlight at
phantom villains, and part the currents with
each stride, while we masticate our glass and
gravel and swallow, each mouth a gift from
devils we. can. hardly. decline. We mask,
spurn our children, withhold touch – this world which
we did not poison but live in. Yet we
swim through the murk, towards light and healing,
believing that good lanes make good fences.