Provincial City.(Poem)

 
PROVINCIAL CITY 
 
   "The policemen walk down that street in pairs. 
   Opium dens, gambling joints. Packypoo!" 
   Dad had parked the Morris Oxford so we could 
   peer down the most famous street in our city. 
 
   A narrow street, a shuttered street. 
   No parked cars. No pedestrians. 
   The pale sunshine of our Sunday drive. 
   The wooden houses, clinging to each other. 
 
   Haining Street. I remember the name and I am 
   a child again, in the city that is far from the world, 
   picturing what a deserted street might look like 
   when nervous policemen risked their necks. 
 
   I summoned books, films, and something else. 
   "Dear! Dear?" Mum said, and we drove home. 
   Did she imagine cheong-sams, love for sale? 
   But it was an almost womanless street. 
 
   The poll tax on each Chinaman ...