A poem — Watching the puppets,
pass through Harcourt Park,
choreographed benches,
orderly palms,
mirror the packaged lives,
of this sterilized class,
some in suit and tie,
others free to wear slacks,
in an air conditioned cubicle,
passing numbered days,
as a diminished threat,
passions extracted,
instincts curbed,
movements restricted,
slaves to the whims,
of nefarious masters. Turning away,
the boat to Lantau,
forested paths,
ancient peaks,
sun comes up,
green and gold,
why follow footsteps
when they leave no trace?
