Amarula Morning (2007)

I begin each day with Amarula in my coffee;
Mostly I want the aroma to fill the morning
And my room with the scent of the savanna at sunrise;
That moment when the hyena has ceased to laugh at the moon
And the hippos slink off to hide their pink bellies in the mud.

At times this seems too sacred for the cold days of January
When the naked trees and frozen sun lie dead
And cannot understand how pure an African morning looks
Before the wildebeests have kicked dust into the air
In their endless journey to return where they never stay.

The Amarula reminds me that I never stay,
And that I don’t belong – except maybe in Heathrow Airport;
Where nobody stays and everyone belongs.
It is the only place with enough departure gates
To handle my nomadic indirection in life.

My morning coffee reminds me of where I grew up
And the reddish stains that never seem to wash off.
The African soil claimed me when I learned to crawl
And began to clothe myself in a rich garment of mud
To hide the fact that I didn’t quite belong in Africa.

And so, on cold January days, I also need my coffee to wake up
To the fact that I am here - here, where it looks like I belong
Only because I leave the savanna’s scent in my room
Where my stained shoes lie safely hidden in the dark corner of my closet
Along with all the questions they raise about my wandering.

Here, where it looks like I belong, it is the muddy stains I hide
Because they do not match the red brick and white columns
Common to this world of bowties and sundresses;
Africa is too real for this world to handle
So I try not to cause a stir in my t-shirt and blue jeans.