Sub-Saharan Immigrants 2 Poem by Robert Melliard

They're here at last - they've made it.

They crossed first desert then the sea
in flimsy boats, or scaled the huge fence
round Ceuta and Melilla,
with razor-wire and all.

Some are lame from falling several metres.

Now, barely noticed, they sell
or try to sell fake watches,
pirate C.D.s or D.V.D.s,
or leather belts or handbags.

I never see anyone buy anything
when they wander into bustling bars
where lucky European citizens
nurse wine and tapas.

I've heard they sleep in 'camas calientes'
(beds still warm from another tenant)
in order to pay less rent
by fitting a dozen people
into a flat meant for four.

Even so, perhaps their lives are better here
than they were in Senegal (or Cameroon
or Nigeria or wherever..)