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Summer midday,
near the railway flyover,
tires leave their mark
on soft tar surface.
A mare, or a horse, or a mule
pulls a cart,
stacked with white plastic bags.
‘UREA’ stenciled on
bag upon bag upon bag…
The
driver
yelling,
cracks his whip,
goads it up the slope.
Cart and traffic both,
stop.
I, in my seat,
in a car, in a jam,
as temperatures rise towards red.
Behind closed car windows,
at-the-danger-mark faces,
in their seats, on their seats,
wave their hands,
open mouths moving.
They have no voice
in the noise
of honking horns and cursing cart man.
He has things to say
but no one hears his pray.
People
sit
and the mare, or the horse or the mule
stands
unmoved
after an hour
still
unmoved.
Just after half past one
from cool air-conditioned cocoons,
men emerge in the blazing sun
to get behind the cart to push.
Under whistling whip and carter’s quips
they push and push and push.
As the cart begins to climb
weight of bags shifts behind,
all four feet now five feet in air.
With a better view I get the clue
horse or mule but not a mare.
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