15.70

Five-teen dollahs and seven tee sense,
says the waitress,
her slang as sharp as the slits of her Chinese eyes,
her verbs and nouns
planted so haphazardly,
almost growing out of her equally garbled flowery apron.

Fifteen Ringgit and seventy cents,
corrects Mom,
in the accent acquired from St. George’s,
where the finest girls are given British brains
to etch up Eastern Elizabeths,
perfectly poised to stand upright, polite and petite,
flawless aristocrats, no bawlers of fowl vowels.

15.70 please,
I mouthed
a weak reply to a matted-haired Mandarin woman,
so meekly I’d hope she wouldn’t mind my English
though she didn’t take matters into hands, her lips battered me
in diction enunciated faster than I could pronounce Women’s Weekly,
exposed me a British banana, muted within my sallow skin.