Zainab Shamsi
They are his sounds –
the rhythmic stutter of a snore
the start of a child
squeak of wheels on asphalt
as the water drum is dragged down the street.
The flapping of tarp
as the homeless pile under its sheet.
The clank of a roller chain
the thud of a dozen flour-dusted boxes
Rover’s reassuring bark
unlike the coyotes in the wild.
The disquiet –
soothed by the strident beat of the staff
and the shrill of the whistle
breaking up the gulley catfight
the louder – the balmier
like a gentle breeze on an evening stroll.
The essential oils, baths, sleep apps…
all tried and failed
pillows of foam, charcoal, latex,
bounce back in shape without his touch
while he paces the spindly balcony
straining for the paper’s rustle, the shutter’s clap.
The hand of the sooty clock
is a skilful baton – a tick here, a note there
moving faster, louder
chasing the alley crescendo!
When the familiar clamour fades in a blur
and night submits to dusty dawn
hushing the sounds of Modi Street
he counts the hours restlessly
until the next symphony.
