Asquith Street, Jones Town
A long spine of asphalt, sizzling black
The macka back cart rumbling
On the morning nerve, herring sprat
Is high life some days in this place
Across the street the bakery
Up the street the parrot teaching me to curse
The hollow determination in any face
For we were all connected by a common shame
The sense that here was the bottom
And our pain was those on top of us
And zinc fences surrounding us
In the prison of our dream.
I was the child at the back of the crowd
After the evening prayers
And the rush for freedom
From the classroom corals that punished our desire
To find our own direction amidst the squall
Of trickery and gun fire ...
I was the child like a raggamuffin on the street
The distractor so my friends could cheat
Mr Bola of his dumplings
My pocket tell the truth of grease in them
I was the child stoning the mango trees
And then close to my gate ... drop back, boy
Behold, out of me a muted lamb appear
I remember, Mrs Donaldson, Byfield
And the tall wall, high as the East Indian tree
I remember Scott, Penley
The girl who almost stole my virginity
And long not now my inocense to keep
What joy for it I could have reaped
But I had neither asphalt nor concrete
Not backbone
Not knowledge of self, no longing for a me
While England's song I hummed those days
And mother's voice was my leash.
I could break on law
Without my brother's raw anger, the basket of his pride
The tamarind switch, my burning skin
The street at noonday filled with din
Firm as a cross
And I wandering it bewitched and lost.
Copyright © David Smalling | Year Posted 2010
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