Poetry

It’s as if my country
is now somewhere on a different planet
and early in the morning I see the poor black man
where he sits with hair like strings
covered in a blanket
against the wall of the ABSA bank
where people at eight o’clock
stand in a very long queue
while they wait upon the bank to open
 
and the friendly police captain
(who sometimes wear plain clothes)
and has a shining bald head
greets me and he wants to know
where my motorcycle is?
 
There are a group of jobless white people
twisting tobacco from cigarette buts
where they beg for leftover food
at DJ’s restaurant
 
and I wonder what is happening to this country
while a minibus taxi
stops in the middle of the road
and drops people in the traffic
 
and the traffic light is green
when I cross to the shopping centre
and the minibus taxi ignores the red light
and barely misses me.