Road In The Morning

The sound of carts is not yet dead Upon the tar coated road of the town; That lies like a dead snake since my childhood; They say it lives forever and eat Grease and diesel direct from wheels; Nothing is new in this town except the snake; In the rain it wakes up polished Ready to slither like a long breath; It coils and falls around the neck of a turning; Windows are opened one to let The dead air inside as vendors fall Asleep over heaps of vegetables with flies; The beggars have proved that There is always a chance to survive As they clap in half hands for a few coins; Like suppurating sores they Hold seats by the side of the road Feeling the cold tar with their underbellies.