DUSK

This is a poem that I wrote today.

Dusk
By Chris Penrose

The blare of prayer
peaks over mosque speakers
as dusk falls, rapidly.
The patient pace of the day quickens
when the sun reaches the horizon.
Puddles are as red
as the blood in the flag.
Scents bump into you like people
with no regard:
black clouds of exhaust,
the smoke of oil singeing fish,
steam that carries the fermented corn of banku,
the humidity of rainfall returning to the sky,
or a dash of dust in your face from the wind.
The trace of mosquitoes causes an itch before it stings;
they are stirred by the coming cover of night.
Heavy stares are sometimes followed by greetings;
greetings are mostly followed by smiles.
Children trail strangers like a game –
soliciting a response is scoring a goal!
Goats and chickens shuffle out of the way
on the short walk home.