By Evie Snow

Ochre coloured streets,
Streets not even streets
But paths winding their way
Through the potholes and stones,
A maze of dust and dirt and desperation.

Buzz of voices, whizz
Of passing moto.
Smell so distinctive,
Nauseating but familiar now:
Fish piled high under the glare of the crowds,
Staring, sweating, smelling,
Find themselves between goats and fabrics.
At home yet out of place.

Comfortable in the crowd,
Pressed tight against stranger bodies,
Wending through, step by step.
Time enough to absorb all,
Too much there to be absorbed.

Dust and dirt and sweat
Trickle down between shoulder blades,
Under clothes,
Tracing a memory soon
To be replaced by

More concrete in their smoke trails.