beirut continued

there are words called out somewhere. over the rubber tires and the smell of burning tar. across the landscape of huddled balconies and bulging curtains. in the wind. they glide over the purple streets. they slide over the people, the people of beirut. those people who clank their hammers and forge their metals and melt, melt in the undulating heat. 'come back'
'come back' i hear you
the child on the scooter on the crippled sidewalk wraps his way around the bends and the stuttering sewage holes. he misses the sturdy gentleman on the phone. he slips by unnoticed, groaning his way across the sea of scented strangers and stinking sweat.