P.W. Jarungpiterah

Krung Thep Skytrain Crossing

Passengers enough to bury 
kneecaps. The sliding doors
excommunicate.
We get by on balance
and steel ropes. 
In the window
below loose covers
of black and gold advertising—
your reflection 
on a scattered sunset. 

Platform escalator
descent. Houses 
like heads of sinking
statues. Concrete 
rooftop garden. Soot 
makes pictures of ghosts
on the whitewashed walls.
A woman and child sit
turning pages.
No washing hangs on the line.