Staggering, a rubber slipper missing,
another morning lost to search
among frequent goers. A long passage
to hunger eased with days spent lifting freight
through paths narrow and drenched.
The sweet stench of blood-stained tiles
reeking of various meat and gutted fish
stink clinging to skin and hair.
In the afternoon pools of gray water stir
on grumbling asphalt cracks.
Come and smell of man’s rubbish,
everything left is considered a waste
before retiring the makeshift stalls
over damp, cold floor.