At Abacus Park, I sit and count after dusk.
On smooth plastic beads, our lives are mapped out after dusk.
I number the hours. Water unspools infinitely in the pool
until the park-keeper shuts off the fount after dusk.
A couple of rods doubles the shame on the frame.
All the beads could be planets. Too much to recount after dusk.
The metrical music of the idyllic families?
The gardens darken — no trespassing about after dusk.
Each second we shared screeches across the bamboo,
the beads slide through. Peacocks’ colours black out after dusk.
My smooth beads belie the rough reality of us.
Tally them up, Zai, the swollen shouts after dusk.