The Market Counters Poem by Olawale Owoeye

After the showery sweat of the sky at night
‎On dying counters that sing themselves a dirge
‎With their clothes— a rusty brown!
‎All rusty!
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‎They stay silent seeking the sun
‎After years of transformation
From full-grown men of the forest
To crafted pieces of furniture

‎They see the thieves, the hunters' guns
And the doomed soul's calabash which,
In the middle of the night, eats eggs and drinks palm oil,
At the altar of the crossroad beside this market married
To this town yet, they are mute and counting like counters!
‎Their mouths were sawed with chain saw that
‎Tears like crocodile's teeth
‎
‎When the wind gasps,
‎When the rain sings the songs of war,
‎They do not move
‎For they are paralytic and maimed.
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