The train stops at Argyle
Where red Chinese characters and green Saigon signs
Name the neighborhood shops.
I breathe in hungrily
Ginger and sesame.
Hanging in windows,
Roast chickens and ducks glisten
Golden with crackled skin.
Honest mortal meat,
No ghosts from the freezer case
Shrouded in breadcrumbs.
I wander the market
Past the sweat-ripe durian
To sweet lychees in red peels
Bok choy and pointed holy basil.
I meet a friend for Siam noodles,
Purple salted crabs in green papaya nests.
She reads the Thai menu:
Pad King, Tom Yum, Yen Ta Fo.
To me, pink soup tastes tropical.
To her, it tastes like home.