Ann Arbor Review
INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
two months ago, the boss
woke, to put to sleep the office coffee.
now he complains of "underperforming"
and of "flagged indices"--the kind of words
that loiter around the brows
of underachieving managers,
words that drop dangerously
upon heads that now lack
the caffeine of clear thinking.
and the milk of contentment.
these days official memos taste sugarless,
just like the white-collared dreams that collide
in the air above the cubicles till noon;
dreams of rats that rub out the finish line
with their feet.
rats that will never grow used to the damming
of the black, steaming river
that never liked to be called volcano.
White shirts&shorts assemble in the shrine
Of time, furtively invoking the godofgrandprix.
White drops of clarity seed
In the blueblack muddiness of dawn's bowl.
We are goosebumps, swaying
On Issele-Uku's dew-darkened dust.
We are toy soldiers sprawled
In the counsel of ease.
We are ferris wheels of feet, powered
By instincts still intact in the slime
Of birth. And we are voices unravelling
From mouths kissed by blindness.
Tolu Ogunlesi, Lagos, Nigeria
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