No 4. Marina Street | Romeo Oriogun | Poetry

EVERY DAY I watch them walk back home wet with the smell of the market, trays balanced on their heads. It will rain. It will not. The truth is here: nothing prepared us for the moment when their bones shivered like lovers ready to part from each other. By the door they peel off their dirty skins and compare history and money. In another room in this house filled with rooms, another woman walks into the arms of ten child...
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