The grey door.
You know, that wooden
door.
With signs afoot
with dreams stuck
to the tiny, little, unforgiving
space.
Where the postman
secrets evidence
that incriminates
and irrigates
the judgement of
a court without.
To say,
many things.
But I do lament
that here is 1725
and there lies 1925.
Hows that pie?
Shall I bring you
the wonder and glory
the shock and awe
of Chai Chees reformed
Bak Chor Mee,
instead?
