Listen
Spoken version
A recorded reading of “At the Red Robot”. If the player does not load, use the original audio source.
The visor mists; the taxi hooter asks, and wet tar lifts a rainbow skin of fuel. A hawker fans his pyramid of blue drums; two oranges sweat shade beside the school. A billboard loosens blessing into strips; a puddle coins a star from schoolboy shoes. The manhole breathes like iron-laboured lips; the red holds long; we idle, pay our dues. But systems love a queue that never ends— one crawling lane makes others seem to fly. A promise bends wherever ETA bends; the map renews the ache we can’t deny. We cross at green, brief mercy at the kerb, then watch the small red man still rule the kerb.
No published comments yet.