Lorry

The day will come 
when you who have helped to build our nation
will finally 
get to sit back
on cushioned seats
toggle the aircon filter to your liking
buckle down the belt
a protection you once couldn’t afford 
a given right that this country has left out for you.

The day will come 
when you can gaze out the window
and laze 
and never have to check your blindspots
for incoming danger.

When that day comes,
my Bak will be given his marching orders.
He will be forced to trade his keys 
for a two months payment package,
too old to serve
too irrelevant for servicing. 
When that day comes,
he will be left out in the cold
as he passes by Maniam, Idham, and many more
whom he used to lift from point A to C, 
now enjoying the cool breeze of the AC.
When that day comes,
he will curse at his upbringing
his backward brain can no longer navigate other career paths
no GPS is available to guide him through the Waze of the new.
Bak will reminisce having ferried his kids
through ebbs and waves of bumpy rides
at the back of his lorry.
Bak will lament that no one will understand him
that being big is to be ostracized
that you are 
too large to park at any shopping mall lots
too fat to squeeze in between tight lanes
too big a target to be blamed
for life and death. 

Author’s Note: Recently, the numerous unnecessary deaths of migrant workers in road accidents have highlighted the many calls for better transportation treatment of our migrant workers. This poem is an attempt in trying to wrestle my conflicting feelings on this issue because (a) our treatment towards the transportation of migrant workers is appalling and cruel and needs to be rectified but (b) my father has been a lorry driver ferrying all sorts of migrant workers from various industries for the past thirty years and counting.