On Temple Street

In the amber light of morning, after the markets,
the street is awash: plastic and vegetable scraps
lie at the feet of the last few Chinese hookers,
standing in doorways, marooned in morning.
They smile reflexively as I walk by,
the merest rictus of the mouth and tired eyes.

Soon Yau Ma Tei and Mong Kok will reverberate
with Sunday maids: raucous Filipinas;
teenage Javanese; slim, giggling Sumatrans
in lovely headscarves - free for a few hours
from the cramped apartments where they slave,
to laugh unguardedly, to eat and window-shop.

The chattering maids; these silent Chinese women
clutching handbags, ankle-deep in litter; and I,
walking alone and aimless into another day:
all of us exiles, cast up in these grimy canyons
by fate or indigence, or life's blunt imperatives,
selling whatever it is we have to sell.

Hong Kong 2007