There is recognition in these worn-out brick walls
hung over with bougainvillea in cerise and dusty green
and thick black bundles of low-slung power lines
Â
but we startle turn step aside for the next tooting scooter
to thread through the constricted lane past high iron gates
a sleeping dog and crates of empty Pepsi bottles.
Â
For we have lived here before, the language now
emerging from hibernation when poked with sticks
of need, words that provoke smiles and wonder
Â
and engagement warm as the winter sun
as we order cups of sweet milky chia and sit on dusty
plastic chairs to watch a thread of Kathmandu weave by.