at which point do i defer
give him right of way
not make him think i'm defiant
might just push him off
when my blouse worn and torn
would not be scattered
and graze his clean white shirt
when the innocent air
would not be stirred
to inundate his nostrils
with my squalid odour
when my dandruff flaying
would not be guided
to his spotless shoulders
when i would be nothing
nothing to hate
nothing to behold
but an old broken woman
at twenty feet i reckon
i would step into black mud
leave the whitewashed sidewalk
for his anglo-saxon stride
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem