it could be NYC
with softer edges—charming
like an old grandpa who still speaks French,
who ambles each morning to the park in the mist

there is no sense to streets—
cars and scooters right and left,
moving in every direction, horn beeps
—a foreign language everyone speaks

shops on top of shops
shoulder to shoulder for coffee, pho,
friends meet, women sweep concrete dust and debris,
scooters teeter, deliveries tower on seats
weaving their way through narrow, crowded streets

tucked together—Burberry, Gucci and banh mi,
a communist economy looks the other way,
a new day as tourists and comrades untangle history;

fifty years makes enemies friends,
leaves me to wonder—
what were we
afraid of?