Poem for Phnom Penh

French roast coffee on my tongue and English tobacco in my lungs. This is how the morning begins.

Poem for Phnom Penh

The terrace is mine.

I’m surrounded by millions; yet it’s peaceful here, near the banks of the mighty Mekong. As the streets come to life, my senses are bombarded by he heat, the smells, the sounds.

It seems nothing here can be explained by its parts alone. Instead, the city as a whole determines how the individual parts behave.

The Frangipani in the garden mask the stink of rotting flesh in the market. Or is it the other way around?

This is Phnom Penh.

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