Wire cars, hair a mess;
I rush my steps—
now breathless.
Tick tock, I stare;
dark rings deepen
my hollow glare,
Mr. mischief
shades in haste,
lines into my face.
Times of Zambia,
plastic Shoprite
bags crushed,
tied string— blue
and pink, plastic
sacks of mealie meal,
crumpled
globes, they
roll to fame
from Z compounds,
eleven-a-side stadiums
to Swiss banks.
He paints my portrait—
Mr. mischief
is it you, the thief?


Love that so muchThanks Nat
Envoyé depuis Yahoo Mail pour iPhone
LikeLike