The streets are jammed
with old cars, luxury cars,
battered trucks, buses,
microbuses, motorcycles,
bicycles, donkey carts,
and stray cats and people
weaving through stalled traffic.
Men in faded, colorless
clothing, are attempting
to sweep into pitiful piles
desert dust infused with
grimy gasoline gunk,
candy wrappers, crushed
water bottles, twisted straws,
soda cans, flattened bottle caps,
cigarette packs, broken lighters,
dried leaves and old newspapers
but with the slightest of breezes
their futile efforts scatter sands
whirling and climbing in swirls
while empty plastic bags,
rising like untethered kites,
cling to ornate iron railings
and straggly trees just trying
to survive. But isn’t that what
we are all doing, just trying
to survive in places more
and more inimical to life?
Where are the parks
for children to dig holes to China
or to replay a lost battle,
but with a different ending?
Where are the lush gardens
for worn-out workers and their
tired wives to refresh and refuel?
Not here, not here, screams
the traffic, not here. Such
luxuries are only for the
privileged in distant, closed
compounds outside the city,
not here anymore.