Where buses spew forth fumes,
on a curb, her hand round a cigarette.
With forceful gait he emerges
from the five-o’clock-crowd
Recruited as protagonists
for the play you’d have me perform,
gaining in confidence
they speak their own words
Their demands appear ludicrous
They ask for
a glass of water,
a few flat loaves,
a tablespoon of sugar,
a match… Between echoing
traffic
and the stealth of dusk
…a bottle of cheap rum,
a blanket, passersby
slip away
a glass of water,
a few flat loaves
. |
|
|
There's no end to it
a
tablespoon of…
Though darkening streets
manhandle all who remain,
a temple alcove’s refuge
The blanket they speak of
warms us. With them
we sleepwalk past the angry,
the pained, the vengeful
There’s no end
to it!
A narrow lane,
a woman bends to her sewing,
a sunken abattoir,
a face at a window
Do we wake? Despite the
blanket
Do we shiver?
. |
