Standing there he gets covered in dust.
Snotty nosed and skeletal, he doesn’t care,
His little arms wear themselves out with joy;
It is just a car.
The sun sets blood-red through the dust
Silhouetting talonned thorn trees;
He walks barefoot but doesn’t notice
I am falling in love with Africa again.
He smiles.
A bowl of rice and prayer for beans,
The pathetic dogs linger just out of reach
Hoping some child is sloppy, unfortunate
But here, they never are, never have been,
The bowl is empty.
His mat is made of grass, the floor mud;
Somehow he sleeps, soundly, soundlessly
Through the memories and chaos of dieing.
Somehow the dead don’t speak from this ground
It just swallows everything and anything forever.
I can’t sleep.
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