The Old Man and his Kaya and Toast

i knew an old man
he made kaya and toast
in little squared toast burners
for hungry massive crowds
every morning for twenty years
quickly despite his age
cutting up singapore bread
without its gardenia tracks
slicing it up in square bits
layering on square bits of butter
and a spread of local green kaya jam
running then to take orders
for local black coffee
in a thin chinese singlet
and black old world pants
a thin silver belt his only possession
or so it seemed ...
he worked happily
day in and day out
one day they told him
they were broadening the street
to make traffic flow more easily
they had to tear down the old shophouse
where he had worked so happily
bringing a bright morning breakfast
to tinker, tailor, timorous soul
all working at useless slavish jobs
kaya and toast their only morning respite ..

for three sad months,
the maker of the most marvellous kaya toast
east of the suez canal
drifted into a melancholia
one day by the kallang river
he drank himself to death
and hurled himself into the river
beer bottles and a small bowl of kway chap
his last meal
to a turbulent rushing world
that does no longer stop
to smell the whiff of roses
or see the hot fumes rise up
from sizzling old world burners
in some forgotten alley
where once he believed
he was a foot next to
paradise ...