Saraswatink

Ammonia.

Splashdown walls by corner shops

where the white man drops.

Burped out of his play hard games.

Amnesia.

And a gusty wind jams on through the tower blocks like rush hour

And a promise of rain hangs onto traffic lights.

And a man sweeps autumn leaves to the edge of the sidewalk –

wind hurries them some place else (some stick to the white man’s trace).

I stop by.

Can’t just cut through his labour like that.

Expect a grateful look, a nod, a friendly sigh… and why?

Skyscraping my worth… how a white man measures!

– ‘Just walk on through’, his eyes say, lazing a gaze at his broken up mounds.

Wind is a song of the Underground Railroad.

I walk on, upstairs, to the bridge, where the promise of rain hangs high.

Alleluia.