We huff, legs trudging pavement hills, aghast
at houses plastered, pastel splatters pinned
to mountains clustered proudly. We run past
a bronze coin, gold sun blanket, bathed with wind.
Again we sweat when shacks are magnified:
it's wheels, this time, that brave rockier roads
through dust. Our rolled up windows slyly eyed
by people strewn about where brick corrodes.
Grass hills, trash trails, dogs dead on their backs
secedes a metal cross cemetery,
spray painted business signs on tin roofed shacks,
razor fences and Cash and Carry's.
Clothes hang, add vibrant hues to this brown strip--
a street of many in this one township.
-Ang Buxton
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