In this concrete jungle
Cement pillars, rusted metal bars, crumbling stairs,
some still long for trees.
A miniature forest grows
in Tin Hau
crammed between a metal-shuttered alley and a slick boutique.
It’s a shop itself, Forest, albeit a small forest.
One lonely tree in the front window
A small family of plants nestled round its roots.
It’s good to have something to live for.
Warm wooden panels line the window
Yellow twinkle lights and green leaves
Peep at passersby who don’t peep back.
One side of the tree,
Rows of heels bathed in stark warehouse light.
A gloom-leaking alley lurks on the other.
Inside the Forest
a solid wooden desk
a bespectacled, shave-headed man.
He watches shopping bags and canes and gray pant-legs hurry past.
The people stream by but the door stays shut.
The man glances. The lights shine. The tree grows.
Time moves on.
