Money Poem by Germina Melius

Money

‘Go to school, study hard, the money will come.' John's father preached his sermon.
John did only one.
He went to school for Medicine, Science never loved his mind.
Five years later, his hands are in his empty pockets like the holy man Job.
The devil blessed him with the unemployment curse and his empty bank account, and God was watching John submerge in an ocean of debt and worries, crying like his neighbour's newborn.
The ‘Son of the Morning' had darkened John's life, turned it wrong side with John wearing shoes on the wrong foot.
Stress made John forget the times he used to dance to salsa music at Maria's place, the Cuban lady from Havana, drink coconuts from the vendor's truck at Reduit Beach.
Now he trades it for soda water and cheap rum.
John's hair has turned to a bush of grey, his eyes like potholes in the city.
Today John's landlord came, asking for money as if John were his employer.
The man gave John a day to gather his things into exile.
John heard his footsteps drifting, and his revved engine disturbing the morning.
John, the tenant, fell on his knees, praying harder than the Saints.

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