In the morning, the city is dirty-beautiful,
bright paint burned tired turquoise and pale pink.
This vintage palette complements
the hello-waving verdant palm leaf fans.
Other tropical foliage crawls
an insistent claim to the land
over buildings of weepy concrete.
The streets are crowded with knock-kneed kids
and shirtless, shiftless men. The men hawk
sunglasses and towels for pennies to the stalled traffic,
or load heavy knots of star apples
onto the backs of motorbikes. Jeepneys bursting
through their glassless windows with humanity
weave naked and neon through the gaps.
Everyone sweats in their shacks
cobbled of corrugated tin and beer billboards.
A woman lifts her hair in a breeze,
smiling at the baby on her hip.
I am here, adding
whatever I am
to this ripe beginning.
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