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About This Poem
Ca-Ching China
The buildings topple, crumble and bloom,
abundantly, amorphously;
like Lego’s mixed with boxes of wheat chex,
tumbling with domino like imperfection.
Clean clothes cha cha; blouses, bras and skivvies,
on makeshift racks and tattered lines;
out the gap-toothed, acid etched, windows of tenements;
crowned with jagged shards of broken glass.
Crusted iron ices peeling stucco rooftops, hovels huddle.
Tottering TV antennas prick the ashen sky.
Megalithic bridge spans dance nightly in purple neon,
serving as, a twenty first century tourist distraction.
Cardboard and woven grass shanties hid the minions.
Daylight finds the masses hiding behind white-collars
and Disneyesque props;
a devious, polite, populous, a swarm;
coloring the streets like confetti with Gucci and glitz.
Herding westerners with their bottomless purses,
past blizzards of signage and squirming delicacies,
potted plants and blighted trees
toward the cash boxes of China.
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