We’ve stolen a day of Rangoon rain.
A flotilla of bleached litter butts
against the storm-drain, going nowhere.
The doolally muzo rhapsodises the flood on his autoharp, his begging-cup filling with a wealth of water. On such days all cities are veiled alike, we are levelled with Kiev, NOLA, Cape Town; only the laughs and curses of people dodging into doorways make their own random chimes.