A poem: A Night in Hong Kong

I didn’t fly to Hong Kong in winter

to flee the bleak cold

It’s not that intuitive

I frequent it because I left something

The noodle shop around the corner

The bookstore on the eighth floor

The guitarist at Times Square

Somewhere last year

They are there no more

Look right

Not left

Then left

And to the right

Traffic is both towering

And baffling

The double deckers

Often seem to fall upon

My shadow on the ground

Night unfolds

Like a book of foreign language

Tongue twisting; tongue-tied

Tangling and tumbling

on my tiptoes, immaturely

Like an unfamiliar plug

Two-pronged

Instead of three

flat pegs in a round hole

I stay at Tin Hau

My room is halfway uphill

From my window

I can see the Goddess Temple

Burning incense sticks flicker

It must be a prayer of joy

Or sorrow

The lights of the temple never go out

They only fade and dim

The guest before me

Must have seen the same

Legend has it that Hong Kong

Originated from a harbor nearby

But It’s late

I am gonna hit the hay

(2024.12.15 Hong Kong)