I was playing with broken toys
That came from my mother’s master’s hand
Second hand, she had asked for them – (but they heard a begging voice)
These rejects were prized possessions in my little hands
While I played, she heeded their commands and in their kitchens she toiled
She scrubbed pans and shined floors, washed khaki pants ‘til her hands were red raw
Meanwhile, me and my little green army men waged battles and worn wars
A mere child, my imagination was big and wild
But too immature to understand what my mother’s master had meant when he said:
“One day, you will be a good foreman,” seeing how happy I’d been to receive what his kids scoffed at
And I was joyful to realise that if I did as I was told, like my mother
There would be more good broken toys to have
YOU ARE READING
THE MANOEUVRES: POETRY
PoesíaDrawn from past experiences, current emotions and the future wishes of a South African young man - The Manoeuvres is about fate, bitterness, regret, destructive behavior and the path to glorious rediscovery in this harsh, crazy world.
