Poetry: The Book Stuck In My Imagination

Before Mr. Bruce fell from the tree,
He had picked up a stone and aimed it at me.
It started the night before
When he left open his kitchen door.
He’s someone you’d describe as poor
Because he often slept on the floor.
No bed, no chair, no table.
The neighbourhood left him a bad label
Which he swallowed until the day he became unable…
Back to the night of the open Kitchen door,
The moon was on her best behaviour.
Her colour shimmered.
She called out the entire village to bask in this glow that glimmered.
We dribbled, passed, tapped and kicked.
It was a good night to come out and play.
And then the sweat and the momentum we picked,
Sent the ball running Mr. Bruce’s way.
Straight into his open Kitchen door it went
And we felt death settle on this colourful night.
One by one we tiptoed and bent,
But the darkness in the kitchen needed light.
Was he in the kitchen or his room? We never knew.
We had plans to one day come into his corner, but this wasn’t the right avenue.
As I approached the door,
I dropped to the floor
Examining the role i wasn’t nominated for.
And then I heard a crackling noise,
And running was an inevitable choice.
Bruce came chasing after me,
The village had scurried away.
The beast in him had broken free
And my feet knew better then to stay.

He yelled out an unclear tone
And picked up a stone
My closest haven was a guava tree
And right up my wings took me.

He came along
Panting strong
And he was right on top of the tree.
But i rushed down
And his shirt got hung
But just then, the branch on which he sat broke free.

Leonell