LINE UP AT THE ROTI HUT
The line runs from the hut along the dock
and into the sun that beats down on their backs.
They slowly shuffle forward
to watch her brushing butter on a disc of dough
and slap it on the smoking plate inside the hut.
The roti skin is brown
and blistered when she stirs the well-worn pot
of stew as yellow as a school bus.
She scoops the sauce
with cubes of curried chicken onto the flatbread,
then folds it neatly, like a package.
I take the parcel
thick with chickpeas fused with flavours
from the spices of a thousand summers.
And move into the shade
as gravy dribbles down my chin and on my feet
and down my arms and to my elbows.
The line runs from the hut
along the dock and into the sun that beats down
on their backs and on their necks.
She scrapes the bottom of the pot.