VOICE OF A SHANTY

The moving street spits
Her contagious phlegm
On our shy faces.
…………………………….

The birds’ gossips
Trucks strange hisses
Over our shadowy roof-tops.

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The weary hands of trees
Wave us flaked farewell
In our paroled green, white, grin.

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Cabled electric trees launch
Reprisal flashes of thunderbolts
To acclimatise light with darkness.

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The gutters, our core neighbours,
Flaunt overloaded abortive debris
From bowels, bladders and bins.

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The smell of wrapped “igbo”
Choruses the fresh air,
Merging biosphere with boitears,
Spoiling musical blues with reggae

……………………………….
At noon, our nagged nostrils
Are duck-webbed with dusts
From blistered tyres of “molues”,
Blacking the content of vision.

……………………………….
Our ears are blocked air-tight
By sand-papered voices of bus-conductors
Soliciting patronage from fast bodies.

………………………………
Our hearts are consoled
By the wary of jungle-justice
Unleashed under our very nose,
Causing skin-forest growth unseen.

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At night, we encounter
A synonym of daylight;
Of unceasing biz as usual,
And the vicious circle rolls on-and-on.

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What more can the poet say?
Than be a spectator,
Witnessing the unfolding journey
Of this time-series drama,
Till Lagos bid him farewell.
……………………………


Copyright of:
Iyeomoan Ema-zogie, 2013.