Twenty-two kilometres away from the city
perpetually ravaged by wind and dust
the roads bumpy and a challenge
to all car owners and the postal service
a happy lackadaisical affair and
the blocks of flats scattered around at random
and the outside walls of the flats defying
cleanliness and the parade of life
outside my door:
the drunk trying to mount the steps
swearing as he skids in predecessors’ vomit
and a curious two-year-old watching
his antics and a woman of indeterminate age
dragging an impossible bundle of washing with half a
dozen kids clawing at her skirts and another
toddler searching for space on a wall
to mark his passing with a piece of chalk
and the occasional tinkle of glass
as a stone is hurled through a window
and the grating calling of a mother
shouting for her child and
the rich pong of gas exuding from
the slowly rotting garbage in dustbins
and the throaty gurgle of pipes
as someone else’s crap passes through
my flat and the infuriating
tap tap tap on the ceiling as
some brat upstairs explores the
mysteries of his floor with a hammer
and the frequent knock on the door
as someone tries yet again to sell
tomatoes steelwool washing baskets
dance-tickets spices or toilet-seats
and the maddening toot-toot of
the milkman as he sells his milk
for four cents more than the dairy does
i think of all these things
when someone asks me if i like living
in eldorado park
not bad
i say
not bad at all