The air is thick with sand,
my tongue is burned by the salt taste
coated in Haw Par Tiger Balm
rubbed onto sunburnt backs.
Checked tablecloths dry
on ironing boards stood
in mock-salute on potholes.
Clams, cockles, molluscs, crabs, the soft things
are now fed to feral cats whose bellies need scratching.
They lick their lips and whisper a lost language,
They bathe in the shadow of the fat tourist
seated inches away.
Outside our neighbour
washes his Golden Retriever
to Chinese Opera.
Half-submerged in a field
filled with straw ghosts.
His wife continues to weed,
her sandals ripped at the heels,
their laundry machine beeps,
a mosquito bites her elbow.
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