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Personal Note:

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Poem

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.

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