kicking pebbles, raising dust
and watching the sun go down
between green and red awnings
over bakeries and boutiques.
A weary tram lumbered past,
painted a forget-me grey
and the ground shook in its wake.
Thick black tarmac smoke bellowed
from a nearby street corner.
Either the monsoons, or the
elections were waiting there.
If he had a camera,
he said, he would capture this
and keep it in his pocket.
The calm before the storm is
always painted vibrantly.
The years roll by like rubber
tires squelching on summer roads.
Voices, neon blues and greens,
rise and float like cuckoo calls
when spring is almost over.
I’m the ringmaster of this
circus-my life, showcasing
each act with flare and flourish.
Why, then, do I spend more time
in the dark shoes of the clown?
I trudge home slowly because
it’s the closest to standing
still when the stars are out, but
the grocer’s closes at nine.
Traffic lights turn from green to
amber, and I think about
when the sky was on fire
and we watched it breathe purple,
plum juice trickling down his chin.
I should have let him know then,
if he had a camera,
I would need a copy for
my lint lined pockets too.