I do not have dreams that I remember but this is the war;

That I was at Queen Mary’s trying to make up,
For slipping,

-skipping school-

And now the scent is after me, evil
Plastic lips and yellow handbags,

After my own whiteness,

Pure white, like
Extra-pure, like

Black is dirty, or something
And I prayed for others today,

Sold good cabbage,

Hoped it will all be ok in the end, that
It would all be ok.

♦Photos – Federick Douglass and Ufunk♦

The broom slices across the floor,
Cutting a precise path through the mess,

Clean swathe through the valley,

Creating mounds of discarded,
Clothing,

Pieces,

Returning slowly to their original state while,
Still holding plastic memories of the night out,

A strong attempt at cleaning up,
A fine start.

Loose Birthday cards too,

Steal up on you,

Perched as they are atop,

Passports

from a long time ago,

On leather surfaces by

open briefcases,

Dragging with them memories,

Sweet enough to have you sitting there,

well past that very important appointment,

you had with a,

Very Important Person,

In bed,

Like an angel,

Asleep.

Wayward sock appears on top of the,
Crest on the
Right
Smiling.

Freedom has come at last.

The lush valley,
Though it took years,

Has been traversed.

The mannequin operating the broomstick,
Is creating life at last,

And as was written,
The cockroach was right.

When a window is shut,
Somewhere, a door will open.

-evocative short Poetry-