Moving at walking pace you only capture
a two-second glance between eye blinks:
Warmer trays turn barricades a ghostly shade
as mopping girl’s ponytail, wrung tight,
whips rhythmically to anonymous FM tunes
while mother’s unwavering stare
nestles tiredly on the doorway
only four metres away.
A few cloudy seconds to create that
Sharp tableaux, not easily erased.
Immigrant dreams flat-packed, reformed,
boxed in again by the simple mathematics of
space and distance:
square feet, now, not miles.