Minutes thin towards the 0.00 hour
And sleep overwhelms,
flames are blown off wicks, the town snuggles for slumber.
A giant cloak of night descends to earth
Saints and robbers roost together.
Someone catches a fatal fever, another receives
seed of a future king and plots are hatched
to kill the present.

It turns eleven and I be.
I spread my papers and sharpen the pencil
Strong Africafe is company,
the swirl of mosquito's music
working music.

A town hall sentinel discloses when
the mayor shall die-
And I blot where I will be.
I count to the seventh bat and compose a poem.
A bed creaks and moans in usefulness. And I
Bet my pencil it will be an abortion.

The vibration, the conspiracy, the general abandon
Reach my nerves. The smell of fried dinner fades,
breeze approaches.
Bats flatter, a stray dog trots past.

An unfortunate victim yells in the street below:
with only a little force
money has journeyed from a pocket to the next.
The dispatcher, as an afterthought, stabs his reluctant victim-
Hauls the soul into the next life.
I conclude my poem, as a whim, with a rhyming couplet.

Like the practiced divorcee, I cross out a stanza badly written,
Glad that I can brew a mess and fix it
Just like God can write a life and recall it.