February 19, 2014


When I pass through villages,
On trips home -
from equally classy towns
I’m filled with this longing of a life,
A life I once had
Of green, wild bushes,
Farmlands and the annoying scratches
From the blades of fresh corn leaves.

On sunny Saturdays, my brother
Meat battered,
would let me carry the spade
but sometimes the bush rabbit escaped.
I can still hear my excited screams,
Rattling through the brushes to
recede with the winds constantly
buffeting the once curtained window of the bus

I imagine children in those bushes
(laid out just beyond the horizon
Reaching carelessly to touch the clouds)
their laughter sweet and innocent
like a child trumping around in dad’s boots
mixing with the tap-tap of machetes
taken to freshly fallen palm oil trees
for the wine that would trickle out in hours

Ah, the wine – I cannot taste it, my tongue reaches out
but all that’s there is the faint taste of dust on my cracked lips
and I’m dragged back to the reality of the bus
bringing me closer to home,
home, where the heart isn’t
where the meter man brings the bills.
The more I stare, the more home becomes a window
to brief and borrowed happiness.

Adulthood is not fun
I have come to know
There are just too many cares
too many strings -
Dragging us to places we’d rather not be
As I lean my head against the window, I notice a scar -
I never would have thought, that I could look
So tenderly upon a scar.