Daniel Nuwamanya
At the violet hour, when the eyes and back
Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits
Like a taxi throbbing,
I, though blind, aching between two lives
See the typist home at tea and foretell the rest—
I too await the expected guest.
He, the young man
Armed with one bold stare,
Strapped with assurance like a coarsen vest
Hungry and direct in his unconsciousness.
The time is propitious, (as he guesses)
The meal is ended and she’s bored, (so she’s reckless)
He endeavours to engage her in caresses
“Exploring hands that encounter no resistance
Make a welcome meal of indifferences;
And I though blind have seen it all
Enacted on a different mattress or bed
Have laughed in pure silence at the grimmest of jokes
And made a mockery of the dead”
He bestows one final, patronising kiss,
And gropes his way, finds the stairs unlit . . .
She turns and stares for a hard moment into the glass
(Men are such trash!)
Hardly aware of her departed lover;
Her brain allows this one half-formed thought to pass:
She tosses it over one half cold shoulder,
“Well now that’s done: and I’m glad it’s over.”
Paces about her room – half audience, half actor
And quietly reaches for her Samsung charger.
“And I, though I claim to see remain blind to sin
The act first hatched in hurting heart or cold head;
So laugh in pure silence at all the grimmest jokes
And make mockery of the dead”
