At the vale of evening if we wait for headlights at ha–Phokoane
you can see coins flick the moonlight in the hands of children running across the street at night.
The men here as brave as a hoard of whores under moonlight
have assembled once more at the drunk parlour, wringing our hands on soft cigarette buds, high school girls and breasts that smell like damp mould
in the corner of small rented rooms in town.
Yellow shingles in their feet,
barcode stamps spores in their mouths
silver men in silver suits and matching ties,
I marvel at those people on Tv who use words like “infrastructure” with the effect of importance.
It’s Saturday and we are waiting for the children to return.
Can the messiah be sobered?