The Way to 205 East Coast Road
April Ma
It was a long day, if you ask me.
And I’m writing this to you.
First, I woke up with my husband’s feet right up in my face.
I went to the kitchen for two Panadols,
for the headache from I’m not sure where;
it must’ve been the same darn thing repeated throughout my 36 years.
I drank a cup of Ye Ye coffee and smoked a cigarette
and took my thyroid pill that is supposed to make me feel up and alive.
Then I was braiding my daughter’s hair who kept saying
I must say sorry whenever she says ouch.
Then I was thinking about my last working day
and Billy the Bastard who hasn’t replied for 2 weeks after interviewing me 3 times.
I hurried off for breakfast with Verne,
the proofreader of my short story written in frustrated non-native English.
Hearing her talk about her anxiety about a woman’s poverty after divorce,
I think I laughed a little, but Verne, I mostly agreed with you.
I just didn’t know how to respond to your words with my mouth all dry.
So I sipped a little water and told her about the state of my health,
but she couldn’t seem to believe it and had no time for the background story.
We were late for the Peranakan breakfast and the poetry reading;
we were waiting at the wrong place.
It didn’t really surprise Verne, or me
as if that was what we’ve been doing all our lives.
Bilingualism in Poetry didn’t really talk about bilingualism in poetry.
It only mentioned the question of translating a piece into a different language.
And they were talking in Chinese, Mira. Not only that, but
with Starbucks grinding ice in a mixer, one couldn’t hear a thing
The two hours there were certainly not the best I’ve ever spent and
I was thinking that was my last 2 dollar parking coupon, and
I didn’t know where to go till the poetry reading in the evening.
Have you applied for the job I’ve told you about?
You’d better do it before your 3 month-contract is over.
I drove 30 minutes to Mira’s apartment just to stay for 30 minutes.
She watched me drink coffee and smoke a cigarette and
I watched her drink wine and smoke a cigarette. I said bye.
And, at 7 p.m., there I was, at 205 East Coast Road.
Just before entering the room I smoothed down my hair and patted on my oily cheeks.
Sure, my hair was as messy as Jessi the poodle next door,
but there must’ve been some other reason for me to be so self-conscious.
Did I expect a couple hours of instant liberation?
I walked up the stair cases of a two story shophouse
to listen to poems written by poets who were not poets when they were born and
for a moment I forgot about my car illegally parked in an alley.
I clapped my hands and cheered the female poet’s performance.
Oh, her name was Dinah, and sitting at the same table were David and Martin.
One of them told me that I’d better get used to rejection. I was thinking I’d already got used to
rejection, all kinds of it, in fact, but I could only give them my native smile.
When it was over, it was almost 10, and I was drop dead tired but drove back home.
Yes, it was a long day, if you ask me, yes, it was.
And I’m writing this to you at this odd hour.
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