The sentences dance before me;
the letters, smiling in the evening sun, say
“enjoy the pothole massage and
cottony horn bleats, we’ll see you later.”
I close the book.
The hooligans: they signal that home is sanity;
get to the sanctuary at all costs, regain lucidity.
For, why’d they hurry towards a knell…
unless, they’ve found joy in the inevitable?
Round a bend, I spot a dreadlocked man,
sitting on the ledge of a culvert.
He stares ahead- his, a profile
of serenity and oblivion.
“How lucky he is,” I think.
“that gully must be full of mosquitoes.”
His smile is the only beautiful thing I encounter
on my way home.