Everything stinks
like an Indian street
The man's
breath
who asks me about my country
He says
"How you find my country miss?"
As i exhale
cigarette smoke
from my lips
That smells of mixed
spice chai
of pigs carcass
on bitumen
pink rubbish piles
in the gutter
Sweet
perfumed sari's
women's
eyes
and
Men's
urinals
Basket
of mandarin
peel
and
Boys
Who shove
their Old
Man's
hands
in
tailored
jacket
hand-me
downs
No comments:
Post a Comment