You chose work-end at sunset
to wait this morning till then—
I pass the dry scent of straws,
seas in the sky overhead,
men in their fifties discussing Politics,
I greeted with a grin that wasn't literal
because I kept betting on either it is
a pluck of burning gladiolus
or an upsetting fruit of Neem
but arriving at the shoe shop
the road bigger, also busier now
whatever it shall be, we would have
a share of thin slice of it.


© Favour Ike