Close Call

Woven like a basket in and out of

Machine openings

Dodging past ditches, diving

Below ground level.

Dwat (right): past the National

Petrol station on the corner.

Through the street with pedestrians, merchants,

Mangos, fig, banan, eggs, fried food delights.

Revved engine, Bwini alerts, warns, intimidates

Crossing women, men, and children—not

Slowing down, but taking the right away.

Stuck between tap tap and wheel barrow

Overflowing with sugar cane—some sliced, others

Whole, long, uncut.

Inwardly, I perk up. Secretly craving a “close call,”

What a fool I am to seek such a thrill.

To my delight, my leg, my thigh brush up against

The barrow of sweet fibrous branches

Of sugar cane,

And I am instantly alive,

And I’ve had a close call, a touch with the street.

I know I’m a fool, but in the moments in between

Predictability and control,

My heart throbs to reach out and touch the

Edge, in small doses

Even though it might not be wisdom that entreats me.