Johannesburg Poem by Gert Strydom

There are mini-bus taxis everywhere
hooting, swerving, stopping anywhere
and people on the street
shouting to each other
as if they are not
in talking distance,
but as if everybody is deaf.

Some hawkers are selling
sweets, cigarettes and newspapers
while others are cooking maize,
porridge and eggs.

Youngsters stand next to
parking meters showing
open parking spaces
and demanding money
to watch vehicles parked there.

Some hobos sleep
in tattered blankets
and smell of wine
and liquor and the sick
sweet odour or retching.

Prostitutes walk up and down
street corners in mini skirts
and t-shirts
with nipples showing through
and have hello smiles
plastered across their faces.

Some gum sniffing children
beg at traffic lights
with twisted arms and legs
and other beggars
have posters wishing you well
or telling you to go to hell.

People queue in lines
waiting for busses
and some stand smoking
while they talk
and businessmen, lawyers,
soldiers, secretaries
are walking quickly past
with briefcases, satchels,
and handbags

and on the sidewalk
there is urine,
blood, vomit, some rotting food
and smoked cigarettes
and everywhere signs
of a city in a country
that is falling apart.