dirty, but not dangerous,
the city breathes dust with
soups of smoke and talk and smiles
steeping on the sidewalk
unnoticed by the busy foreigners
bustling in bunches
towards somewhere
or else nowhere
blinkers in hand.
we all have the same map now.
pulsing with life,
Saigon dreams,
but does not sleep;
old sighs coloured by fresh fancies
- or is it the other way around? -
infect and inspire the
creaky criss-cross alleys
brimming with light
and dark
and light.
shiny marble built upon crumbling brick,
Saigon's casual neglect
deigned not to segregate
the toffs from the toughs;
maestros from merchants
the bankers from builders
nor lawyers from sawyers
all share the city's sweet
swooning, sighing heart.
on any streetcorner, cracked plastic stools
perched barely above the warm concrete
straddle perhaps a red carpet -
idiosyncratic, but not unwelcome;
immaculate suits clothe
immaculate girls who
haggle over prices of phở -
the vendor flashes them
a well-trained smile
as he heaps ladels of glistening soup
into the crockery.
they always leave a tip, of course.
the poor abound,
yet poverty does not;
a universal truth amongst all
seems to be shared, unsaid, that
charity is something to be given
- not received.
this morning, I thought of England,
and wondered at what
offense She had committed to be
shunned by Solar for so long.
But the sun has not forgotten sweet Saigon,
and the city thrives,
blooming in the glow,
expanding in the heat,
with white light,
and a heat also from within,
and always, always with a smile.
