So we were writing poems in poetry class today. "What are reply poems?" asked Cheryl, and I was equally puzzled. Naturally, our poetry teacher, who came up with the term, explained. "Reply poems, are basically poems that are written in response to other poems," he said, blinking rapidly between intervals. It's the first thing about him that I noticed, and yet no one other than me has seen it yet. He chuckled at his own private joke, and proceeded to analyse each of the poems he wanted us to reply to.

Somewhere along the way, I came up with this poem. Since I'm going to be putting it in my poetry folio for the end of this poetry workshop, please give comments, thanks.

This is the poem I was 'replying' to:
In A Station of the Metro
The apparation of these faces in the crowd
Petals on a wet black bough

And this is my reply:
Leaving, Not On A Jet Plane
This petal peels off
Buffted by the winds of chance
Into this train
The doors close on me
Like water over the head of one
Who is drowning
City Hall, Bugis
They pass me in arcs of light that
Slip through reaching fingers
Much like the slashing beams
Of streetlights, regular as heart beats,
In the train's relentless rush
We burst out of the tunnel
The HDB flats through the trees
Shine like stars
And the cars are spilt pearls of light
On the velvet of the road
That heads home
Are we there yet?
The flight leave at 9 sharp
Fiddling with my luggage tags
I know I am leaving much behind

The flight seems a little off, based on the title, but what I meant to say was that the process of leaving begins long before you get on the jet plane. I have to thank Jane for this poem, for the long talk we had before she left for Melbourne. This is for you.