Troop Bazaar or The Street That I Live On


Only on Sundays is the street
neither drunk on traffic
nor binged on smoke.

Though its stale breath
still reeks of noise
and through its slurred speech
drip faint echoes of its quaintness.

In the tenuous silence
numbness of the facades melt
and edifices bellow
the wrinkles of haphazardness.

Houses squat like
decrepit old men,
that have cataract ridden
dead eyes for windows
with pigeon poop
in their conjunctiva.

And if you were searching
for the hints of humanity
behind those sooty eyes,
you would find shadows
whose light was the mound of filth
piled on the bosom of the street.

Unshackled by the din,
wails from the trash
convey to the sleeping gods above
of the desire for freedom
of the shadows of men.

At times, moon blossoms
at the end of the street,
but then shies away
from the psychedelic runes
of the shop fronts.

But the street pines away,
and in its reveries,
dreads the tumult
of a Monday morning,
and ensconced in its nightmares
I dream about
the distant rumble of traffic.

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