Behind the Behind

Behind the behind Behind the holiday inn near the bus station used by us the masses and immigrants and those who wander in no man’s land. There are streets of houses kept in a gloomy mood of semi-poverty and cheap wine. I walked these streets, shuttered windows, here and there a small shop run by a Pakistani, how they can make a living out of it is a wonder. There are cafes too I nearly walked into but had to stake a step back by a smell the was Mongolian by its muscular scent. We had been to a gigantic old hospital where dying is against the law, yet doctors and nurses to keep it open, a valiant fight that was doomed to failure. She had a hip problem waiting for transport took three hours the boredom stretched endlessly before us in a part of Lisbon few sane tourists will see. Back at the bus station, I found a corner of a second-hand shop I bought a book of prose poetry and got one for free. I marvelled at the seller, an Indian from Bangalore, selling poetry in Iberia.