At Garibong five-way crossing, steeped in darkness,

on the congested road in front of the bus stop

a twelve-seater van pulls over

Laborers finishing daywork sit jammed together

like prisoners in a paddywagon,

look out of the window with no expression.
Five sit in seats made for three

one more row of workers is sitting over the engine,

from the elderly man over sixty

to the one in his early thirties,

to the blue-eyed foreigner,

everyone’s hair is discolored, all the same,
They can’t be described

with any extraordinary metaphor or symbol.

They said not a word.