IDIOGBOLU

Every first hour of dawn.
In the torn gut of this town
Limpid whales pout wine bellies
and weaklings die. Alive.

Gray spaces on walls
mark the remnants of family names
They brag like moist tags
tale soaked,
incomplete.

The South wind
so gravid with echoes barely blows --
murmurs can be heard in the night-filled day
like wails from a thousand hounds
howling away in travail.
The nights have no moons
Only stars
govern the light.

Ah Idiogbolu! Wake up from your slumber
The five founding fathers who set-out at sunset
tripped and fell beneath the oak!
Their houses, haunted, stand uninhabited till date
the roofs rustle still,
hard with ghostly tremors,
When the dead visit and find no one home.