READING THE CITY
The city does not tell its past, but contains it like the lines of a hand.
Italo Calvino
Previous section: Blackout
4th floor, Lucky Hotel
On my desk lies the poverty report,
displaying its bright shining
cover -
rusted tin, pieces of striped plastic,
colourful riverfront
shanties.
So seductive, the charm of the eye,
repelling our powers of
reason.
Why bother with the heavy text?
The research depends on
distance,
and words of so many syllables:
restructured debt - equitisation
malaria - literacy - etc.
Good style adopts a neutral tone,
values
shade to infallibile grey,
the pulse and heartbeat slow.
Moving to my
beautiful balcony,
I look down at the daily scene;
questions flood the
street as usual.
A masked woman with rubbish cart
is sweeping debris from
the gutter -
branches of new year's lucky blossom,
with petals falling -
fragile, lyrical, pink.
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