As the light creeps through the soft, stained glass,
Marking the coming end of cindered days,
We roamed like Roman pilgrims,
Able to preach salvation only to a wooden audience
Of Turbo Peter Rabbit and company.

A leisurely loiter later led us to
The girls’ hostel,
Fully-kitted with a Telkom payphone.
Pick up, push buttons, pout lips.
Waves of rings stopped with an answer.
“Yes, operator. Reverse charge, please. To myself.”

“Hello?” pulsed the less than gingerly
Grown up greeting his shed self.
“Hello, you – me. You see, we are one,
Grafted together to the vile vine
Of man’s megalomaniac enslaving of mind and meaning.
You’re an adult now – be free, unlike me.
Remain ruled and you will pay a far greater price than this call.”
Drop down, dig deep, don’t discuss.