Rua Do Olival (Street Point 17)

And if she leant lonesome on the sill, they’re talking by their shops, one of them that is filled with old frames piling up as musty as the slum that echoes with his cough, she stared, in a waiting stretching like the street, they stand, gathered, in the stillness of that street, the smallness of its width heightening its length, and almost as empty as the other one’s shelves where are just little cans, bottled beers and some greens, a bit like his life, sniffing and savouring the air, arguing that a tackle’d been fair, talking so time passes by before he’ll have to plod back to his ramshackle slum - her sharp alertness to some coming sounds - stiffly, he stands, the length of the street, one hand on the wall, his back with a hump.