Where I’m From

Where I’m from,

it’s

bustling

hustling

rustling

cars, suits and

loose heavy papers

(that could form craters)

 

Where I’m from,

what sticks,

latches on to you

is the perfume of a stranger

late to a rather strange

destination –

contemplation-

or simply,

retracting,

contracting

hands

apologetic looks

“I’m sorry, but I

come first”. Red light turns green.

 

Where I’m from,

it’s bubbling

leaking

creaking

freshly paved cement,

used up fuel

and week-old cooking

oil still brought to

the

boil.

 

I’ll stand on the edge of the sidewalk,

under the muffled

moon or battered down

lights that

trace posters which climb up walls

like vines, greedily locking locks

(carved with half-finished syllables)

that latch selfish promises on to unwilling

gates.

 

Where I’m from,

trains consist of

looks trying to resist

bony shoulders

edging into hips,

joints popping

and people swaying

to the rhythm of

trainstops

like lanky trees in a

soft breeze.

“Oh I hope I don’t have to lean on to

anyone,”

or

“I’d rather stumble”.

 

But what I’ll remember from all this

bustle,

are the people skipping across

zebra lines like kids playing

hopscotch.

Giggles and all.

 


lil side note. i live in hong kong. this is hong kong from me to you.

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