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A Market Conversation. by Jonathan Chibuike Ukah

That man over there in white Bubba, / walking on the left like he’s got only feathers as props, / such a swagger, such a swivel as if he’s invisible; / I see the furrows in his eyes, and you can see it too. / Look at him; look at his loop, his second body, / I mean that polished bag in his armpit / like he’s got somewhere else to rush to. / I mean, he's got such a head like an owl. / That man has money, good money, red money, / sinking rich, you know what I mean by that; / rich like our lake of rotten clothes, broken bottles / from you and your children and your family.
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