The
string connecting the hearts, tight and perilously thin
Thin,
thin and thin, very thin
A
cup of instant coffee, not real sievable coffee,
Then
scrotal sacs full of testosterone, full,
Livening
the affair, the false affair, the imaginary affair
The
breasts had hope, of getting suckled, one day
Before
then, a big man suckled them, sometimes biting
Causing
the tickle, fueling the heart to beat, one more day
One
more day, one more time, one more beat.
Mr.
and Mrs. Worked hard, the times were boring
It
was like walking up a wavy lazy road, hilly lazy road
Sometimes
bed times were plain, plain and dead
The
kisses were sour, pale and pale.
Dates
were pampered, perhaps, to compensate the lack of the in-thing
The
heart eats what it wants, on a bad day; the heart eats what is there
Happiness
was in the past, the centuries past
Like
the England queen who derives authority from 18th century super
power
But
still hopes for a better day
Then
one evening in a fourteen-sitter eighteen-sitter matatu
Her
heart was touched, twitched by the skin of the lady squeezing in
Palpitation,
Confusion, instant inebriation
Smiles,
perspicuous adoration, insidious inside
Happy
birthday illegitimacy, glad we are Kenyans, not Ugandans
So
another lady had the key to her happiness?
Not
the fool who screams instructions every night.
Weeks
of wet dreams, sound dreams, noisy dreams
Weeks
of waiting for the lady to come back from Rio De Janeiro
She
had chosen soccer commentator-ship
To
live the life of men, she had a key to a lady, anyway
Weeks
of staring to the loveless body spread full length on the king size
Weeks
of making instant coffee, bad coffee, bleak coffee
Of
getting tasteless testicles get drained into her
Weeks
of acting, conspicuously, to tell him the love story is dead
It
wasn’t love, it was a love story.
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