Poem for my father

PAPA AT WORK

I was nine
around the machines
photocopy, blue-printer, cashier
at papa’s store
by the crowded road
besides the tall house selling oil
Watching him
To be a slave of ambition
pulling his life by a clock
seven to five, monday to saturday
sometimes, sunday
To be a slave of desire
desire drove him away
leaving his soul with a hole
delivering his body - empty
And the thought printed in mind
like the rusty typewriter
clicking its paws
in Times New Roman
Was he happy.
Swallow this:
it was mansoon dawn
in a muddy narrow road
with cracked pavements
where no cars can’t go in
rain flowing on both sides
it was bandung, my hometown
the rain had just done pouring
humid air had just done blowing
wild morning glories were wet
dripping their nectar
to the ground
a lonely dog surrendered its thirst
to the drainage
it filled with mosquito eggs
Blue house number five
at three dawn
silent as a dead man
papa sat with his face down
His mother in the kitchen of smoke
ironing bananas leaves
whipping eggs and flour
dripping salt of sweat
smoking her lung of cigarette
At six
the cakes were ready
to be sold to the market
Papa had to go
to be cakes seller
to yell “cakes for sale”
The money was not even enough
to buy sleepers
His words
“I’ll never be a poor”
He saw
the word ambition
He saw
himself, a wife and children playing
He saw
himself, a store and working people
Suddenly,
he smiled.

By me (assignment of English 50)