Homesick

Tick tock tick tock talk the times.
It’s 5 am when the day gets hungry,
And it’s set to break fast.
Momma is the minister of this prime.
She owns the key to open the prayers.
8 am we scatter closely like the stars of the sky.
To return before the Sun wears her shades.
This home smells like old school.
Fire woods arranged at the backyard like shelf of books.
Ancient dried but strong palm sticks cover our roof.
Smoke from burning lantern at nights,
Raises incense to hail our breath.
The painless stripes of mats pierce our faces by dawn.
Papa on his old one-armed dwindling chair.
He sits to watch the news of the paper.

Tochi