With ten minutes of that idle
Day left to bide
She said that you’re coming to see her
To the Hut, do I also wanna come
And say hi to you, she asks.
And I sit, around the table
Fat aunties crack the thousandth joke
Like the bicycle spokes they go round and round.
I mark her eye, my answer forms inside,
Lips, like in kiss, roll to make a sound.
“I don’t think she’d wanna see me” is,
Then, what I say and she says
“Or don’t you wanna see her?” and
I say I’m fine with it. With six other heads
Between us threading needles, life’s fine balance is caught mid air.
What? What? Someone, edging on the gossipy chair
Jumps in, throwing back her freckled hair
And knowing not what she would pass around as news
I half change my mind to see you there.
My trouser pocket itches me to sit and stay.
So, we walk down the corridor – she and I –
In her pouring pearls of wisdom she
Of your current appointment’s nature to me
Discloses. We take steps one by one
I can clearly hear the echo of my heel on the tiles
And how you’ve thrived in painting and
Your passion for art and of your child she tells,
All mixed like a Picasso. O’ but this is rot:
You the artist I know, without her telling me,
The contained passionate artist’s touch
And its thousand nuanced implications and one,
Where they were rubbed and touched and
Held deep inside – I know,
That waste in memory where
You’re there – sitting, waiting,
You probably need her help.
Otherwise why should you come? But you
Smile and say “well, hi” and she, pro in the social art
Of polite greeting, duly hi’s you back.
You speak with her, as I stand on the side
Giving elegance and colour to the backdrop that brims,
Except for benches, of she, you and I
And, just about to take leave, “hi” to me you say
As if that hi which you had carried, then popped out your purse.
I say “hi” and as you two turn to leave,
I turn to the opposite end and I heave
But let not go of that sigh, cos to sigh or be different
Nothing happened –
It was only that two old friends just met.
Only that times and spaces have turned and jazz
Like a refilled palette, where I kissed her ass
And we kissed other things, gave birth to wings
Now dangle like moth breath in cobweb strings.
Only the ignorance of the others will be carried.