Gods of the night
Minutes thin towards the
0.00 hour
And
sleep overwhelms,
flames
are blown off wicks, the town snuggles for slumber.
A
giant cloak of night descends to guard till dawn
Saints and robbers roost together.
Someone
catches a fatal fever, another receives
seed
of a future king and plots are hatched
to
kill the present.
It
turns eleven and I be.
I
spread my papers, sharpen the pencil
Strong
Africafe is company,
the
swirl of mosquito too -
my
working symphony.
A
town hall sentinel discloses:
the
mayor shall die
I
blot where I will be.
I
count to the seventh bat and compose a poem.
A
bed creaks and moans in usefulness. And I
Bet
my pencil it will be an abortion.
The
vibration, the conspiracy, the general abandon
Reach
my nerves. The smell of fried dinner
fades,
breeze approaches.
Bats
flatter, a stray dog trots past.
An
unfortunate victim yells in the street below:
with
only a little force money journeys
from
a pocket to the next.
I
conclude my poem, as a whim, with a rhyming couplet.
The
dispatcher, as an afterthought, stabs his reluctant victim;
Hauls
the soul into the next life.
Like
the average divorcee, I cross out a stanza,
Glad
that I can create a mess and fix it
like
God, write a life and erase it.
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