Airport Field Poem by Tony Adah

The airport foreground
Is fun with it lush verdure
And trees and birds chattering
Except the piebald crow
That silently coos around the place.

There are three Or four houses here
And all their occupants are green, red,
Brown and opaque bottles of drinks
To drive down the drinks
Two Or three barbicue stands
Smoke in the open
And in rainfall a tattered canvas canopy
Of blue and yellow hue
Here dead fish lying with open eyes
Are tortured with heat
Maimed by tatoos of deep marks
For spices to sink.

The customers sit
Each horde in isolated places
Their guestesses fondling with phones
Waiting for thier order to get done
The mystery of this place
Is the lack of light
When it is dark
And the people relish it
To shade their privacy and
They prided themselves in it
By saying the hand
Doesn't miss any mouth at night.