10:10 o’clock 

Wellbeing has nothing to do with an
on-off switch.
Blackout persists in other towns. As for me
the weatherman who usually starts with,
‘‘Howdy, my dear friends?’’ has been with me all day today.
Shot with an arrow of time  
here’s a young man in any-way-the-wind-blows outfit,
an adolescent flag flapping in a gale.
In such a starlit darkness
you no longer have to croon, “Oh, my darling, oh, my full moon!”
The climax where the police are
arrested by the police has yet to arrive.
It took only thirty comrades to establish 
the Myanmar Armed Forces.
They are doing just fine without you.
I am too busy to look up at the donor climbing up the pole of
his own charity marquee.
Protests are making rounds like novitiates on horseback.
Since anything can turn into a mass movement any moment,
my backpack is  
my office now.
No wonder the country is at the roadside —
on the road
you often bump into that bloke
who says, “You guys are roadies’ roadies.”
If you can tell  
a throw-away  
from a slip-away
this poem
can go on, or
end right here.

10:10 o’clock