If I am successful,
I will be immortal and misunderstood.
If these emaciated girls on the candlelit street
Of Luang Prabang are successful,
They understand they will live for another melting day
Dreaming idly of an ink-faced man like me
Who will whisk them away for good,
Only he’s perfect, always remembering his pinky promise
To come back the next night
To buy their dusty bed sheets
For a fistful of wrinkled kip.
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