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But now the streets get emptied. Everyone exits.

It’s the rain, mistily thin this afternoon, but still with

The ability to soak one. Rain which began last night,

Drumming in a syncopated fashion on the ventilator fixed

Into my window. Tariffs though are just too dull a subject.

This percussion’s steadied by the slow but steady drip from

A tap into the sink, which generates a different note.

x

Now whenever there’s a pause, the maze of markets under

Giant trees surges into life crammed into see-through macs

Beneath umbrellas, awnings, sheets of tarpaulin. Still

Everything drips onto reddening cloves of garlic, orange

Oranges and watermelon slices, maize in all its mixtures

Cultivated by the Incas. In some other corner, mounds

Of watches, tools and ancient cameras – all worthy of a forage.

X

Rained off the beach by another gale, as I enter the

Pedestrian underpass, a middle-aged lady gives me a smile.

It’s wonderful in Rio. No need for a baby-sitter. Mum and dad

Are dancing forro together in the busy square while the kids

Are rushing about, playing tag, leaping walls, boys and girls

Playing together, at 9pm – when it’s cooler. Integrated atmosphere.

Unlike London’s hidden eyes, faces something all ignore.

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(work in progress)