Tourists photograph
boys and girls flicking
marbles in the dirt,
skipping a frayed
braided rope,
kicking flat
fùtbols in the street.
Hearts pried open,
eyes focused,
they closely circle
looking for the angle
they would never
see at home,
and from in-your-face
distances across
the wide boulevard
whose traffic
of breakneck scooters,
roofed auto-rickshaws
and walkers laden
with the day’s groceries
never stops
they shoot
a weary mother
and her children
parked on see-through
blankets, soiled hands
stuck wide open.

By Michael G. Smith