A Paper House

 

Copper penny scent of rain

rising to the second deck

of this rattle and shake on rails, 

the tram shudders past Fuk Tat T-shirt

shop and the fortune teller on Sai Woo Lane

splays his red doors open. Sea brine

dampens my face by the open window.

At every stop more dried bones,

shark fins translucent as finger nail parings,

starfish, stiff and bristled. An old woman

bent under an invisible weight, crosses

against the light, angles through the turnstile

at the back of the car. All bamboo scaffold,

crumpled newsprint, she rustles and creaks

up the stairs and into the seat beside me.

She is carrying a paper house to burn. Who

will receive this gift from the smoke?

I wonder how I will mourn this city

when I go.