Broad Street Noon

The heat hangs like a yellow cloth

over the bones of buildings.

The air tastes of diesel and dried fish.

“Wait-a-Bit” taxis scream through dust,

their bumpers stitched together

by prayer and stubborn will.

Money-changers flick their notes

like cards in a losing game.

“USD? LD? I give you the rate.”

But the rate drifts —

a restless ghost

rising off the Atlantic wind.

We walk this narrow edge,

a city balanced on the informal,

where a smile can spend,

and the pavement burns

through the thin soles

of ambition.