Yard Fowls
Not long after church bells sound and
cynical mothers scurry to morning Mass,
the yard fowls come out of hiding.
Motors are a ghetto’s rooster -
my suburban brother doesn’t know
the cries of truant church-boys, homeschooled
surgeons operating on the organs of makeshift cars.
Neither does he know our communal yard -
it is beautified with empty rum bottles, spare parts,
torn shirts and Lego-like speakers. The boys bring their
children and djabals, all enjoying the lyricism of bassy
dancehall music.
Soon, a chòdyè cooks salted pigtail, copious lentils -
and, never forgetting the P.M’s green figs. And
because of the raging matron, the boys tame their
mother-obsessed tongues.
By five o’clcock , they’ve beaten the remembered
roads homeward, the sun offers pink kisses on the
summer horizon, and the yard is quiet once more.
My suburban brother, there is much you do not know.