The road is good but the traffic is heavy
it stops and swells
before most of it oozes in the right direction
with an awareness – collective as well as insular
of a greater purpose.
The footpath is overrun, occupied
dispossessed of its intended use
by settlements made of sheets of tin, plastic
and bits of this and that –
patches of shade, keeping people close
to talk, laugh, eat, drink, work
and have all their reveries
right next to all the traffic
peppered with a few disgruntled pedestrians
passing through.
A man hammers on a piece of metal.
Men sit on beds with tubular frames
and strips of nylon
outdoors, for the sunlight
with long, ornamental hookahs.
Another group of men play cards.
A group of women sit in a circle, closely knit,
the old talking and the young listening –
‘… marriage is difficult,
but she needs to fulfil her commitment…’
A young woman who looks beautiful
with her hair uncombed but not quite askew,
is washing clothes.
A girl organises her colour pencils by size
in her pencil box.
A boy plays a board game by himself,
sending the dice rolling.
And the pedestrians alone have the luxury
to wonder,
how the cars (barely) moving on one side
and this little village sitting on the other
are headed in the same direction.