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I cannot hear myself think
inner voices seek refuge
crumpled up and stuck
against concrete.

Concrete; front, left and right
and up over our heads
inside families, ten a room
fifteen a living room
and a baby wailing for attention.
On the road a blaring horn
stabs my ears; restless
youth on joyrides to nowhere
and a boy mourning
the loss of his friend
last seen doing 80 km an
hour towards the city
where he was supposed
to find hope in life.

I can't hear myself think
incessant voices
grating against concrete
against concrete
against
concrete.