Sheung Wan

Out the way, exit A, 2 I believe

A garden of nodding cigarette butts

And puddles of water and grime

There’s no white rabbit to lead the way down the twisty, tricky rabbit hole

A white puff of a dog will have to do

Though cradled by a hard-eyed elder

Who shuffles too much to be a guide

Further in, up the stairs that find being level an offense,

Gray cement sometimes carpeted in green.

Mao smiles on my descent, his cig swirling purply-pink fumes

Atop the slopes, a temple looms

Prayers and incense rise from bobbing mouths,

Doors to some, black against white cheek walls

Nearby the tree and broom stand guard,

The straw beginning where the vine ends

The years dissolving the differences like sugar in hot tea.

Now it’s down the fern-lined crack between the buildings,

Stars and moss and a green lion’s mane.

Fronds brush fingers, feet tread velvet,

Many strangers to meet besides the rainbow Mao.

A blue bomb grins morbidly, waiting for the tail of fire

To hit his head, bringing the end.

A teal teacup with a toothless grin,

Holding a presumably bare man bathing in tea,

Nonchalant, mumbling into a banana-brown flip phone.

White aircon squares, under which hang by tatty nooses

A stuffed pup and a hapless strawberry.

What treason warranted such a death,

To hang, mildewing in the wet and the wind?

A silver mirror stand sits silent in a wavy park

The glass long gone, no faces at which to peer,

No beauty to glimpse or forms to distort.

Potential is silenced by a rubbish collector’s judgment:

permanent exile to the bin.

The sighting of a red crown ends the fun.

For the love of my head,

I shadow my steps back to A2,

Away from the magic of concrete friends,

Back to the world where rabbits are mute and queens are in England.