Driving Past

With my eyes in foreign skin,

There are glimpses of people on the edges of a tumult roadside.

They freeze into statues that I lock into for hours with only seconds.

As if a museum, displayed the people of Takoradi.

Each exhibit viewed from the canvas.

The canvas border outlined with chipping red paint,

Revealing rusted old metal scrap.

New life camouflaged in the brush strokes of a mother.

She patterned with fabrics as she gracefully balances her means on her head.

Strong legs, strong back, strong neck.

To leave her hands bare at times.

Here, her hands are to worship and exchange currency.

Her hands for what she holds on her back.