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Mombasa

Inspired by Emily Dickinson’s Life.

 

As the clock strikes

midnight in a perfect world,

they only want to know one thing:

What does your soul look like?

 

In the beginning, three sat together

in darkness, sweating and chewing miraa,

talking of unlikely things and dreams

while ******* down Tusker.

It was refreshing to be nobody,

soft baiting the line

and wasting time

gambling shilingi.

 

The sun outside set sooner than expected,

dipping well below the low buildings,

so they ventured out into the cobalt

blue evening, not thinking too much

about who might be listening,

speaking bravely as their words

and jokes slowed down beside

shadows beyond the city lights.

 

Laughing more, the three hopped on

a matatu at Kimkambala, smelling

the final wisps of dinner in each

passing village, watching as a purse

got pulled just paces from the road,

until they got off by Fort Jesus.

 

Further and further, they treaded home,

walking alongside the Indian Ocean -

Through the thick, green night, almost

fog-like, tip-toeing by an old man and

his flashlight; he slept soundly on

the steps of that corner storefront.

 

The three whispered their goodbyes,

and headed separate ways.

 

The youngest of them slid easily between the

narrow alleyways, and finally through braided

black bars. With the turn of a treasure-chest key,

he was back in the courtyard, walking past the

stripped bones of yesterday’s catch, where he

decided to make his permanent address, today.

 

He had dwelled where dreams are born,

but only for a day, and searched to find

sunset in the tip of a cup – when the

sunset was enough. He knew

that it was too much as he asked

a stranger to fill him up to the brim,

and told him not to worry, he would

say “when.” He had worked hard to

lay down his guilt on the altar, and not

return to gin, making this decision:

 

He decided that being

born to homeless winds

doesn’t mean that you

have to be homeless, and

as he climbed the broom-swept

maroon steps, up to the roof, he

breathed deeply. How pleasant

it was to look out onto the sea,

reflecting the pearly moon,

so beautifully.

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Written by
ted-boughter-dornfeld
Published
Feb 16, 2011
Lines·Words
61·365
Notes

Poetry by Ted Boughter-Dornfeld Copyright © 2009

Permission

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