Streets paved with gold seeking shuffling feet of old.
Me a little peasant boy,
Walking in the rain with no hand to hold.
Jacaranda trees dangle their lilac bells of royalty and
Sprinkle me into oblivion with their golden confetti of pollen.
Blue headed geckos, like miniature dinosaurs cling
To tree barks and steal nanosecond glances and make me
Feel like Gulliver in a modern Jurassic street.
I am happy, save for the occasional shots of solitude that
Sneak up on me to remind me of the many avenues like this
I have built many a papier-mâché memory on.
In the distance I can see the speedy bullets of kamikaze raindrops
Splashing into the thirsty red soil.
They conjure a red mist of dust that pirouettes its way into
My eyes like red ballerina child soldiers hell bent on bringing me
To my knees.
And yet I keep walking, breathing and shuffling my peasant feet
To get home.
These golden streets, so uninviting, forget that
It was the crusty hand of my father that
Polished them to their now acclaimed glory.
Oh how quickly the gold forgets its buffer in
Its time of shimmer!
My mittens choke my hands so that I silently scream
Inside my head and peel them off so my palms can breathe.
I look at my hands.
Are they to be vouchsafed of royalty?
And yet it does not matter for I am content
To walk the streets where you trod
To pave a way for my dainty feet so I could walk home and
Rest my weary frame before facing the world again tomorrow.
Frank Malaba © 2012