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Presently

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I sit in a plastic chair,
the kind from Mukwano.
My cardigan, shirt, undergarments, and knapsack
from yesterday’s trip hanging from it.
A bed in which I laid,
behind me – not yet made.

My loyal travel bag, besides me,
open but not yet unpacked,
and the walking shoes,
next to one another but antipodal,
waiting to be rightly placed.
Rows of books, DVDs, play cards, and
china with bread and cold porridge on them –
a breakfast not yet eaten.

Some lives were meant to be wasted!

I sit with an unenthusiastic slouch
appreciating Frank Ocean’s
much needed soothing music
on a Sunday morning,
one so chilly.

At twenty-three,
my brain cells are eaten away by passiveness.
So, I run my fingers through an afro –
not yet kempt,
pretending to be a writer,
scratching, like I am searching for the words
which, like magic,
will warm her heart,
calm her fears,
embrace her mind, and
make her feel my love for her –
my sweet creature.

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