Fakeleather-bound backpacks
cascade on top of each other
under a handwritten stamp: "25 euro!"
They are lining a wall between
the faux Morrocan and gitano-hippy
tapestry stands that proudly display brass
statues spraypainted with gold.
A wrinkled woman burns incense
accross the street. First rose, then dragon's blood
then rose. The clouds sink into her tanned crows feet
and the empty space of her tarped enclosure.
A tourist smokehouse. A cage. A garden.
Choirs of Yoruba drummers
snake between the shops and balconies
of apartments. Their echoes broadcasting
the soundtrack for no one
and for outdoor tapas.
Sunday's business is surviving.
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