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Let it be before I go from where I've seen moons after moons,
crescent and full; let memories carve yellow suns on the 
dark-skinned children, polishing them with sweat and sea salt 
to surface their natural oils. Let me see them smile again.
Let me see September's winds push cane leaves into spirals,
while singing like jukebox in an almost hollow bar,
far from where her spirits caused heartbreaks.
Fix my mind so it can carry me, like country bus
on scenic routes, to custard apples & mango fruits
on the ground in thick pangola grass,
drooling like miss Mabel's full black lips,
 leaving nectar for she-goats, & pests that frequent 
drop toilets. We tied T-shirts (necks & sleeves), make sachels
 for the loads, while skipping a few ounces of uncivilized 
honey bees, living, but dying to hurt us. To soften 
the venom, we slowly pissed on the unwanted gifts 
appreciating when a girl's bladder is full;
painful, but still, they are good people with virtue
Life was okay; every story has one lie and one truth
despite our age, and the arrogance of its teller
It was the mountains that speak most;
cannabis smells have a way of creeping betwixt
wild coffee trees, finding evening breeze
heading for our noses, asking our clothes to take them home,
and parents were customers who buy no excuses.
They have no evidence to support accusations;
without red eyes or high, our truth was sold as lies
Sunday was a beautiful woman. She would bring
cricket; two bats, one ball. Now I sit here, one bat
two balls, almost helpless. The bowlers,
deceptive like the president and a seer in a mask.
They have leathers behaving in unusual ways;
cutting out, cutting in, all gay, nothing straight
You have to be forward to intercept. Exposing
shin, like Arabian god, unpadded to face 
unpredictable elements. Sunday was a lady.
I missed her on the open common in Goodwill.
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