The slave
a true
truly bad poem.
The shortcut,
my rattly old honda 125
Back home....
Just once, risking life and limb
I had to
" Kathleen... listen, its late... maybe tonight he wont come back...
something at home, or broken truck?
...can i give you a lift?"
As dark and perfectly still
as the receding dusk
as, her holding on to me as if
for her life,
or maybe a teddy bear she never had
As we rattled through the sugar cane fields, my old
motorbike
Had at last, the perfect, delicate as bambi, black beauty of the whole isle
abord
Two humans, seperated by nothing
Me laughing at the divit ups and downs
As we scuttled
the boat of everyone else
abandoned
across the furrowed fields
the high walls of cane
our perfect bordello screen, privacy
as impenetrable to gaze as if brick and mortar; immune to jealousy
And at last, even if i couldnt see her face
burrowed into my neck as
vicegrip
her arms around my stomach
i knew
she was smiling
Months i had noticed, her curated gaze
only for him
day after, every day's
work
Into his waggon.
I couldnt say, of course
Him Rambo chested and 250 pounds
" its not slavery,
in grained
even lack of money, whiteman boss
. ...as office manager hes quite well paid...
nothing from the 'intergeneratiomal trauma' past
...that makes him dress you in only his coquettery
his property
and ' one glance at her....shes mine! '
(as well as the wife)
and one word to hertoo
you're dead, not just to me"
Never mind, on the wireless even at work, every day
from a few Islands down, the splendid modern humanist preacher, Bob .. the Marley
I did say,
" thanks for letting me help... ..long walk home,
and at last we speak, you are so lovely, warm...months i knew that
but dont worry, i wont even remember,
i know the score, he's dangerous and brutal
so you tell him, you got home,
just fine, all alone"
