The heat is a vise
choking the moisture
out of the air
the sun is obsessed
with this place
surely she is not staring
anywhere else
today.
The men here have legs
like stilts
balanced on dusty bulbous heels
they make no sound
when they walk.
The women defy
science
they don’t sweat
even though they are wrapped
in yards of fabric
and do the work
of mules.
An old man stands behind
a cauldron of boiling oil
serving up pakoras
and fried bread.
My skin wants to blister
from ten feet away
as I feel the heat
double up on itself
I give the man my bottle of water
I want him to drink it
soak his head.
He pours it into a bowl instead
at his feet
and it is then that I see
the dog
a ragged little thing
panting
patient
grateful
lapping it up.