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by Marc Nair
of a rubber seed haunts a park-slope in Ang Mo Kio, its plumage
rich, leathery and dappled, exciting the casual rubber tapper.
Joggers stare at this new attraction when they round the bend,
then they burst ahead, intent on regular breathing.
Children are bemused; it is too large to climb up, edges curved with
no communal handholds, no instructions, so they stand around,
knocking on this concrete seed that births a concrete jungle.
It should be made from pure rubber instead, says the old man who
sits on a stray bench beside the seed each evening, his newspaper
rolled under one arm, his poodle on a short leash chasing an ant.
It should be an adrenaline ball bouncing and tumbling down the hill
and up against the station, smashing onto train tracks as people
scream then take selfies.
If you rub two seeds together, they make the kind of warmth that
burns a little, but never a fire. Editors' note:  Marc Nair is a poet and photographer. He is a recipient of the 2016 Young Artist Award. He has performed spoken word in solo and group performances for fifteen years in more than ten countries and has represented Singapore in international poetry slam competitions. Nair has published five single-authored volumes of poetry and has released another three collections in collaboration with visual artists, photographers and graphic artists. (Photo credit: Dalene Low) |
