The hara, my street

How can you capture noise,
dust and pollen piling up on the way to work
almond blossom on the way home,
so much goes on in the little windows

Turkish drama, Arab food sizzling
it is this street that beams with the Athan, the call for prayer
at five each morning, carol of the bells
by the hour

this is the holiest city; of prayer in times
of sin in a parallel timezone
where the blue-set eyes like the Mediterranean
speak cosmopolitan in a paper bag

breathe in, breathe out the air
on the corner shop, an old man with a stick
restores hope in a paper cup,
when I ask about the change, he replies like the weather:
Bokra,  tomorrow, it will arrive.