A poem on Gaborone

 

Needlepoint Evening

 

6 o’clock smears the sun

like a blood-bloated mosquito

on the sky near Venus

who has pushed her way

through a pinprick in the heavens.

The evening light isn’t

soft like you’d expect – it’s

harsh. But when the burning eye

of the day’s heat turns

elsewhere in the world,

the schoolchildren

find their ways home

down dirt roads and through

alleys, sucking on mint toffees.

The cattle heave up

from their spots

in the shaded grass under

the gasping tree of thistle.

The goats stop traffic as they

make a line across the road, bells clanging.

Stray dogs worry the trashcans

of un-fenced houses.

Beneath the bruised sky,

the barren park is childless.

It can only boast grown men

emersed in cellphone conversations,

swaying on swings not meant for them,

but still the stars appear

like needlepoints.

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3 Comments

Add yours →

  1. and how do you know Gaborone
    ?

  2. quite detailed, a word gallery of photos…an absolutely perfect finale.

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