On Chicken Street

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On chicken street under wilting plastic

traders watch the earth wash brown,

no footfall

just rainfall,

two days now

and still it comes.

 

Between discussion

and calls to prayer,

tabang wallahs 

contemplate a better place. 

Where tourists 

happily re-distribute wealth.

 

Still the rain comes.

Mechanical suckers 

block the streets, 

filling their tanks with slurried waste,

human and animal. 

The detritus of barren years.  

 

Then labouring out to the city’s edge

dumping the filth in polluted rivers

to re-flood the streets.

The futility of this action un-seen 

through “inshallah” eyes.

 

This microcosm of recycled catastrophe

of ground hog hope,

falls endlessly here.

Filtering out progress, 

dumping back the residue of despair

for all to willingly share.

 

On Chicken street

its been raining

for centuries now.

 

futilityHistoryhopeweather

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