MEXICO #5

There’s a man,
Balancing on an old lorry tyre,
In the middle of the road,
Juggling Silver,
Spinning a ball on a stick in his mouth,
He rolls the tyre beneath his feet to the side of the road,
Dismounts before the lights change,
Walks between the cars for money,
Slips the money in his back pocket,
And repeats,

There’s a bird in a tree,
On the other side of the road,
That sounds like a machine,
Above a patch of dirt where women sell strings of beads,
And bottled water,
In the shade of the tree where the machine birds sings,
Waiting for the lights to change,
To peddle their wares to motorists,

There’s a kiosk,
At the gates to a meat-fest restaurant,
Where semis park up at night to sleep,
The kiosk is made from an old truck cab,
Nose cut off,
A single light bulb,
Hanging off a piece of wire inside,
Illuminates the cab at night,
Where a lone woman stares out through the windscreen,
Waiting for a road to appear,

Vulcan Izadora sells old truck tyres,
On the dirt patch where lorries sleep,
A nativity scene,
Waiting for the people & animals to be returned,
By a giant benevolent hand,
Or just,
A sign

(K)