To a Job Seeker
That tipsy state of midnight sorrow will not drag the rabbit out of its hole. And head buried in burrows of worry, neither will you find your lost dollar. The periwinkle flower once blossoming strong in your palm, shredded into petals of worry as you stuff it fisted in your pocket. Last week, a hole broke, dropped pennies for unnamed tramps. Toast and coffee were all you could afford, cowering in a kopitiam amid this towering city. Yet guilt has no place in one's life - once you chastened my beaten mood. I reach out with the long probe of a finger, lift your chin to indulge the flame of the setting sun as it bows beyond the world's line of riches.