Roonland Blues

Another day another try, He tucks his shirt and knots his tie. He laces too his worn out shoes As he tries to catch the morning news. His threadbare coat hangs on the wall, From rain to sun it’s seen it all. Poor thing, recollect ten years back, On Matric day that suit was black. He throws it on and out he goes What fate he’ll find nobody knows. Thick files in his hands he pleads his case, But door-to-door they slam his face. The Joshua of his family, He dares not give up easily. So, sweaty, tired, he trudges on, Each passing hour baked by the sun. His sticky suit glued to his skin, Does not hold back his polite grin. Dry bread and sugar serve as lunch; They’ll be his last, he has a hunch. The day is dead, no step ahead, “No space for you” was what all said. The journey home is all too grim, With flashing scenes rejecting him. Broken, he crumbles on his bed, Stomach growling, knowledge in his head. But his mind is bent, he shuns the noose, Ready to dance to these Roonland Blues.