Drowning Bangkok

As I lay, the thin cotton sheet against my cheek
And my ear, dripping sweat, a faint smell of soap exuding
From the fabric, barely covering the humid scent of the blankets,
My inanimate fingers resting on the rugged wood,
I hear Bangkok slowly drowning.

Godless waters take over the streets,
pummeling tin and iron with furious fists,
Devouring every sound, pitiless, arrogant,
Thundering anger and disappointment.

Every pothole and stinky sewage
Slowly fills with moist and fear.
A dark ooze seeps from the pores of the city.

Street carts, choky buses and running children
Are quietly floated away
As sois convulse and eruct their clammy dirt.

Mosaics of submerged cars shine through
The yellow-tainted street-rivers
Anxious to carry away their sulfurous burden.

Waters at last invade my last refuge
Merrily rushing in, eager to lick the hard wood
To conquest the graying blankets and to ridicule the puddles of sweat.
Futile agitation, helpless buckets, vain barricading
Subside as a liquid peace extends over the last scrap
Of drowned Bangkok.

I drift away.