Sai Kung

It was a low rise building.
The smell of cooked garlic
lingered between the floors,
laughter bursting
from the radios and jokes told
in my native tongue.

I was a stranger at home.
I walked among
the neighbors, quiet
as an unstrung guitar.

I waited for the bus, greeted
by commuters wary like moles
caught in the sun, nothing
could assuage them:
not morning’s pure light,
not their own dreams.

I tried to conjure your face
but I was distracted
while you,
like a wayward cloud,
sauntered off.

I listened to rain tapping
on the air conditioner, frogs
silent in the sewer,

my eyes wandering
to the wall where a gecko
mounted itself, playing dead
with its eyes open,

where the paint almost undone
by humidity and time
was blistering
like a tropical illness.