A Custom Visit
Come as you are, tattoos and dreadlocks
It’s what they preach, blood and sweat
Come on in, take a sit
It’s what she said, eyes rolling to the side
So sharply I thought they detach
From their sockets, run down the corridor
Past the outside veranda, out the gate
Down the street, rolling
Rolling some more
Till the tyres of a car would crush them,
Splash their contents
That way, all the judgement they held
Would be out in the open, nude in the streets
Because one cannot see a preacher
Who happens to be one’s father
With tatts and dreads
Without a customary eye roll.
Omooba is a wonderful poet and writer. She contributed the first piece to the series.
Throughout the month, I’d be posting contributions to a poem series titled – ‘These Are The Days of Our Lives‘.
Other guest writers are very welcome