When the bread bin
Is empty
I put on my uniform
My police officer's uniform
Medals dangling
Down my chest
To the rowdy bread queue
To maintain order
To buy bread
Without a hassle
When the maize-meal tin
Is low
I put on my uniform
My army officer's uniform
With sergeant's gold stars
Pinned on my shoulders
To quickstep
To the warlike mealie-meal queue
To buy mealie-meal
Without joining the queue

When I am out of fuel
I wear my army colonel's garb
With its conspicuous badges
Swinging around me
To ghost walk
To the bumper-to-bumper fuel queue
To buy the fuel
From behind the queue

When the family says
Sugar is spent
I wear my uniform
My constabulary tunic
To march
To the anxiety-charged sugar queue
To suppress all dissent
When I jump the queue

When I go window-shopping
I wear my uniform
My petrol officer's reflector vest
Weighed down by silver, service medals
Clanking noisily
To gain quick entry
And to travel free
On public transport
...

After bouts of kachasu
we sleep drunk
to wake up in running battles
with hangovers
that seek refuge
in our heads.

We find no peace
in this village
protected by spirits
not of our ancestors
but from the bottle.

Flies invade
in ghostly numbers
armed with missiles
we lie and die
on our stools
in toilets full of diarrhoea.

Our crowded numbers
flare tempers
fire impatience
to seek refuge elsewhere.
...

His eyes are see-through.
Through them I see
a yawning empty bread bin
a fridge stands
astounded
by its chilling emptiness
a stove, cold,
sits huddled in a corner
finds nothing to warm up
for mice swept the pantry
before seeking refuge
in refuse pits
in the neighbourhood.
Cockroaches left jackets
on hangers of webs
bills are forming
a small mound
on a formica table.

Yet - whenever I ask
How he is doing
he replies:
'Fine. And you?'
...

I had travelled a
long way
without smelling gunpowder.
You were only a fence
from me, yet far,
for we arrived
when the gate was closed.

No one was going in
no one was coming out.

After a night in the bus
I returned to work
laden with those gifts,
laden with a sore heart.

But I knew
the war closed the gates
but not your heart.
...

Today I was fortunate
to stumble upon a vendor
sorting out grapes for sale.
He separated
the good from the bad
on a plastic sheet
spread on the pavement.
He gave me the ones
that he thought were foul.

I sorted the grapes
in my mouth.
I spat out
those that were bad
but my tongue
did not find
the grapes all that bad.

It's just that
the broken ones
had less juice
and the over-ripe
had an odour.
...