I found it behind an old work bench, water stained and curled on the corners, looking as forgotten as an out-of-luck beggar. But like in the beggar's eyes, there was a past that was full of hope and still warm memories. My sister's college collage of collective consolations; hugs from home for the lonely days, those that come on the "in between" years when sometimes we just want to be a kid again. There were half unglued photos of home and vacations, and clips of
Fabian, Elvis, Ricky Nelson, the Beatles, the Stones, and a peace sign. Ha, in the corner, there was an old photo of me kissing her on the cheek (Mom said to) - I was seven and she was five. Funny, I didn't even think she liked me much...
Take a ballet slipper full of dancer’s blood,
A broken drop light and a lug wrench,
A Chevy fender splashed with bayou mud,
Your boyfriend shackled to his work bench.
Use a duck tape gag that’s labeled Gator Bait,
So only God will hear his dying wish.
Leave the swamp gate open, pour a drink and wait.
That’s how jealous Cajun women ghoti.
Hell hath no fury like a woman hooked on phonics.
February the month after the one before
Needs and wants have grown some more
They say you're a poor planner; you dream small
How must you fathom standing straight and tall
To claim ones birth-right is fair game
You too, will surely reclaim your fame
At the work-bench, your nose to the grind
Caring not whether others mind
Walk with me on the steep road, if you will
The breakthrough is just over the hill
I am a Coach and Mentor; always here
I will hold your hand; help you lose your fear
From the very first time I set foot in this place,
I determined to prosper,
Ekpoma,
like a work bench,
and a technician's manual on instrumentation,
reaches for instruments,
of vitality,
with market gestures,
and a gesticulating culture,
in the land of the living,
under a plastic cloud of mood swings,
hanging partly by a vegetable spine,
of subsistence backyards,
and Friendswillpower Enterprise
Eastertide.
A cloud of polished steel hangs over
The village, hollowed eyed people
Look up to the sky
Where is spring this year?
Like the man on the bridge they can
take no more.
For Paulo, the old carpenter it was
all too much, no wine could still his angst
of not seeing another spring and
his nightly screams echoed till dawn.
Dogs barked his time was over
hanging in the shed between his tractor
and work-bench.
This shook the village out of stupor
No more waiting for what may never come,
a pig was slaughtered its blood an offering
to life itself.
The feast lasted for days.
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