Pale Of The Bamboo Curtain Poem by Roger Gerald Hicks

In Kowloon Tong station, cross-road between
the HK subway and KCR, four-hundred
Chinese plus one nervous Californian- crushed
together like canned asparagus- strain toward
three working turnstiles. Small children
protectively perched on shoulders. All grin,
sharing humor of inglorious dilemma- how
to shuffle feet in such tightlyknitthrong. Past
the turnstiles, oxygen atoms escaped
from lungs, ecstatic random motion in boundless
void- yet faintly mourning the warm press.

The KCR commuter glides north past mist-shrouded
islets piercing sun-reflecting Tolo Bay. Tai Wai and
Fo Tan flit by like marathon runners near the finish.
Stepping into Tai Po is like departing a time ship.
Authentic Chinese, Tai Po triples wealth at a price:
trash strewn streets, toilets crude holes in floors,
reliance on guide-book phrases sung off key.

Steps from train station, a squatting street-vendor
chops meat. Feet swirl on the sidewalk. A shop window
displays dried lizards stretched between twigs, and
dragon innards. Inside a clerk patiently explains, in
Cantonese, merits of his products. Made giddy by a
swarming odors, I listen in English. We smile and nod
bravely, like foolish puppets in a children's play- both
noble ambassadors of fictitious nations.