On highways,
we fling cans & bottles
deprived of their inborn sweetness through our buses' windows—
They amble into our gutters
strangle the gutter till the gutter puke them out
giving them a new residence—the road,
and a congregation of scathes reign there
Our market women cast their sewage unto the smooth road,
an overflow is birthed—
the gutter is weary and clogged
so the sewage plunders the smoothness on our roads
they leave them brokenhearted—check the potholes.
Someday & somehow,
we'll ply these roads with them handpicking our breath.
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