By Dennis Williams
PROMPT—No one noticed ...
I don’t know traffic jams. Vehicles traverse my streets intermittently, miles apart, never a risk to children playing on the unpaved road, dogs lying in the middle of the road flicking their tails periodically to ward off flies, soaking up the sun, as drunken men stagger along the roadway unable to walk in a perfect line.
I’m not accustomed to garbage pile-up, the unseemly sight of flies, buzzing to the next passerby their targeted landing site, soiling them, spreading germs, disturbing kids' birthday celebrations, and sending their parents running for Lysol. Up here we dig deep holes and bury our garbage, which is good for the environment.
No bloody robberies, the lone village shop is protected by old men sitting on benches and stools having an intense conversation on the war in Ukraine, progress in Africa, and how COVID ravishes the economy of third world countries. Sharing a bottle of native white rum, our favorite pastime. We don’t call those who serve us bartenders, but Mrs. whatever the husband’s last name is. Respected, in her bib and tie head of a different color from the one she wore yesterday.
Not accustomed to seeing strong young men sitting on the street corners, being a nuisance to girls walking by, our young men are always out in the field tending their cash crop which they will reap soon, providing them with monies in their pocket to put food on the table and send their children to school as soon as the COVID breaks.
We are not used to constant light out, the radio plays none stop because every fortnight we buy batteries from Mr. Brown and we listen to BBC world news and the latest call-in program where ordinary citizens get a chance to rant and criticize the government.
I’m not used to water lock-offs or water rationing, every night I bathe in the river before I retire to bed, the river is always full of freshwater after every long downpour. We store water in big drums stock behind the house and yesterday the rain poured and the river almost burst its banks, threatening Mr. Brown’s banana farm and forcing the children to wait until it subsides before they across.
Am I living in the world of yesterday, probably I’m but I’m living a comfortable life and I’m satisfied with life in these rural parts.
Dennis Williams is an urban poet with a rural mind. He reads poems for fun and writes them for a living. His pen is his weapon and the paper is his tool. He appreciates poets and never misses the opportunity to read their work. He never stops writing poetry, because he believes that persistence will win in the end.