Bundled mosquito nets hang
in blue smoke, gritty suicide
brides for sale.
Gusts of sordid blue rock them on stripped
branches. Taxi motorcycles

weasel closer to
the front lines. Over
their engines' collective howl, the street
vendors hiss and call: Le blanc! Venez
payer! Come pay.

Come pay. Flies settle
on sleeping barmaids and mechanics'
apprentices stretched
over broken concrete; women approach
on the sidewalk,

the soft bright perfect feet
of their tied-on babies peeping over
their hips. They offer

oranges or small children
for a good price. No, I say. I've
already paid. I've been
paying all this time.

A lukewarm Coke rests
in a ring of moisture
on the table. I lay a coin down.
I go.
I hope it's enough.