Freedom a la Chinoise

Nowhere is one so free in a country like this
When you open a toilet door, as I did this noon, next to the staff
Canteen, you see a pile of shit, reaching the top of the seat

The one who shat could blame the mechanism for not flushing
Or the cleaner for not scooping it quickly enough with a plate
But this is not the only one as everywhere you go

Toilets are yellow with unflushed urine
Even in the best facilities. And see this
And compare it with the single file of Chinese diggers in the 18

60s or 1870s Oz, now at Sweebee, my temporary university
Where 6 girls (I counted) were walking in the noonday sun
In a single file, too, but horizontally, bulldozer-wise

As I write this I recall, prior to the shit, opening a door
Only for someone else to go through, without a ‘thanks’
And when she opened the door before her she let herself freely in

Without holding it a tad longer for me to pass
As if I didn’t exist, the prior door-holder
As for some of the staff members here, beautifully called ‘Teacher’

They refuse to serve their professors who have difficulties with Excel
By excusing themselves with an ‘I’m busy’
And in the cinema where I was someone’s answering a call

Whose voice was audible enough
Reminding me of 30 years ago in Yichang
Where the silver screen was darkened

By columns of smoke rising, causing my Canadian hydro-electric experts
To chuckle, and reminding, too, of the haze now
That has the total freedom to stay in this free country, refusing to go