Poetry: Be Thankful For Nothing

The day was Sunday,
The pastor preached faith.
My mum shouted hallelujahs,
That rocked heaven’s gate.

We got home farmished,
Our stomachs had sown our lips tight.
Mum put the pot on fire,
And our eyes leaped out with light.
Jerry, Thomas and I all gathered by the heat.

For hours it stewed,
Like she was cooking stones.
We stood and set the dining,
All thankful to God.
The pot was still heating.
Underneath her breath,
Silent prayers escaping,
Like tiny bids of steam.

I made for the pot cover,
My reflection looked like a ghost.
The one who saw nothing,
If hallucinations count.

Then we heard a few knocks.
Our door must be displeased,
Cause if you push harder,
Some bars might come Unhinged.

Brother Kenneth brought us goodies.
That filled our hearts with relief,
First thanks was for nothing,
But the second we could relive.

Vera