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.
Saraswatink 