The Air of a Different Century
David J Walker
And to think
I remember days in 1956
Not that they mattered to anyone
As young as me
Only that the sky was clear and
I breathed the air
of different century
where it rained on me
in the fall
and the snow was pure and
fell on all who braved the
winter storms of 1956
the hustler and bustlers drove cars
and took buses to
downtown Denver waiting
for golden flakes to fall
from the capital dome
It was my 1956 Home
A mad woman with shattered
hair, bridled with great fulfilled
ego and pride among all women.
A troubled soul in the midst of
Pestful heterogenous mouths.
Hanging here and there are her
beauties spreading like an Eagle's
wings in a flight to perfection.
Up and down are template of
confused children lost in horror.
The street is strict and stressed
every walls occupied by hustlers
every street, a ghotto of bustlers
Lagos laughs large locomotively
yet, the street is stoning every commoner.
Sweat on the street closes many nose
Hurrying legs and hands write before the sun
Hopes fall like pack of cards
every eyes busy and troubled with its
own problems and circumstances.
Lagos,
a naked woman who needs no clothes
but jumps here and there like a teenager
on a new shoe parading the street to be seen
her breast milk is made for every mouth to suck.
This is Lagos our mother
soiled with floating slums and stalls crammed
full of all races and tribes.
Many have stolen her virginity yet,
She never suffer them to ruin.
©John Chizoba Vincent
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