On way to school?
But the classrooms are full of white
shirts. On maybe to work
in his favourite football shirt.
The boy jumps over a low fence
and crosses the river bank
to a tree, his tree, perhaps.
He climbs and sits on a broken branch
overhanging the curry-green river
stained by lily pads and sewerage,
shirking through Siem Reap.
He sits for a while, fishing
with his thoughts, flicking ash
into the slow Cambodian waters.