Men in bloodied white aprons
tightening their belt strings
as they slice and cut
into the soft pork-bellies
of their customers.

Market men shouting for business
down narrow busy alley ways.
Their calls and cries
answered by the throngs
of waiting wanting women and fanning Amahs.
In the midday crush, their voices swell
pushing and heaving and grunting
before peaking into soft yahs and uh haas
and long final ahhhhhsss.

Clucking popos
off to Market
all elbows, sticks and creaking bones.
Clutching onto
plastic bags in tatters
no matter
the fading colours
of reds, whites and blues.
Freedom!
(comes later)
in a bag full of empty aluminum cans.
Victory!
(home again, home again, jiggity jig)
in a vacant MTR seat.

Squabbling rats
in empty wet gutters
fighting over scraps at dusk.
Stray cats
slinking between the deserted market stalls
like late night hungry ghosts.
Feeding and fighting
the late-at-night market’s lonely howls,
as if it too were on heat.