The decrepit windows up there do not look down. Only wet clothes hang out from balconies. Toothpaste foams at the woman’s mouth from balcony and her daughter’s eyes are awash with sleep.
Scraps of poems walk past the chicken cages. But the chicken do not walk like poems. Chickens in cages do not cry foul of the human condition. Chickens hardly cross the street.
But the chickens ‘ necks will be wrung to turn poems in stomachs later.