The Night Rain Collectors Poem by HAZEEM OLADIPUPO OLUWATOBI KAZEEM

When the sun resigns its duty
and lamps grow tired of truth,
they emerge soft-footed men in borrowed cloaks,
counting dreams like rain caught in open palms.

Their hands know the language of pockets,
the careful grammar of locks,
they read the clouds like ledgers
and place buckets beneath communal roofs
where everyone once drank.

They do not break doors;
they inherit keys,
forged from promises, applause,
and signatures dried beneath smiling photographs.

In the dark, faces dissolve into shadows,
and names become unnecessary.

Only barrels grow heavy
measured, sealed and rolled away
while the streets below grow thin and thirsty.

They whisper vows to the moon,
swearing loyalty to the poor,
then siphon the silence,
emptying the night until even hunger
forgets how to cry.

Before dawn rehearses justice,
they vanish,
leaving behind empty buckets and barrels,
roofs that still leak,
and waiting mouths
tilted toward a sky already paid for.

When light finally arrives,
it finds no thieves,
only respected men
auditing the morning,
complaining about the weather,
asking why the rain
never reached the people
who owned the clouds.