Afternoon. It rains–
clouds come quickly, fill up the sky.
Water falls –hard and swift.
In flooding streets and overflowing drains,
plastic shoes, bags, bottles,
fallen palm, fig, teak leaves.

Horns honk, brakes screech,
buses roar on by.
The motorcycles gather
behind overloaded trucks,
push forward onto sidewalks
across lanes, into
any small space.

Motorcyclists stop.
Pull on rain capes,
wrap children in their arms,
tucking them close. Head out
onto slippery streets.
I pray for the small arms and feet,
angled, open, exposed to
all that comes, so close.

In the morning, at dawn,
far below my hotel window,
a man with a broom sweeps puddles
from the quiet street.


This poem first appeared in Musings (Collingwood Writers' Collective, 2017).
Used here with the author’s permission.