Otido Omukuba

Street boys, now street men,
teach their kids
to ply the trade.
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Ah, here I am

In a Japanese melodrama –
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Little miss miracle – so gentle a voice

Dainty as a flower, birdlike in poise
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You build a cottage for it –

Hide it with tender care
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When I run out of words

I feel so blue
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what flowers for Friday?
what petals to kiss your feet
as you tread towards morning
and tremble in dread of today?
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The little thing
Makes her worth
A little more
Than all the spin – all the wobble – and all the topple
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Spread out like a rug
So weary from a day spent blossoming
And tending your nails
You lie upon your dreams and float like a cloud
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With charcoal she scrawled
On my trap-door in the sun;
Soapstone urns and words that rhyme
She broke on temple floors
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