White Noise

by TAN YIT FONG

Step-by-step shovelling through the barely-there pedestrian sidewalks
with the blaring of new development underway in shrill dissonance,
Drilling and pounding with conversations
in languages I don’t understand but have only heard in recurrence

Passing by capsules resounding in the low thudding of their exhaust pipes
caught in yet another standstill traffic,
Alongside reverberations of congested condenser fans that ascribes
some sort of human life within these opaque, static, cemented – more capsules

Trudging tracks back to back besides other inhabitants
wondering what microcosms do they enshrine within themselves?
Which for now inaudible, alongside other signs and symbols that tug
to be made sense of which familiarization of its lost meaning eventually dispels

Unoccupied parks but of uproarious heat
rivers flowing sluggishly as open sewers,
There is but no frenzy, no pandemonium to retreat
From, yet-

they all coalesce, into cyclical rhythms, indiscernible – into the white noise
they seem to be in anticipation for somewhat more-
as though when we turn on the television for some tangible form of our dreams
and we know white noise shouldn’t… isn’t supposed to be playing.