A Complicated Book To Read Poem by Niki Nicholas Nkuna

It is sunset, son sat outside the shop,
A myriad of people flocking in and out of the shop,
He, looking at them forlornly,
Picking up faces of some people that dare look at him,
Once that happens the fish hook jumps out of the water quickly,
The son sat, same position not shaken by the smell of the food,
The goodies are everyday passers-by,
Sometimes causing the stomach to cringe out of emptiness,

Seems like his new name is insects repellent,
Insects running pell mell in his presence,
His magnetic eyes pulling at straws,
In want of the passers-by's possessions,
No wonder the customers cling to their possessions,
In the believe that hungry vagrants are dangerous to their welfare,
Their thoughts, selfish and benevolent, drive the rhythm of the day,
Misguided attitude placed under the son's mirror,
Oblivious that he is a harmless,
Hungry or may not be hungry and a humble being,
They see a vagrant, a nonentity, a beggar or a thief,
He is a chameleon, that changes colour to fit the occasion,

Alas! A delivery van from heaven came
To deliver the goodies in the form of luck,
The goodies are hidden in the begging hands of the vagrant,
The face of the Messiah hidden in a balaclava,
Worn oblivious to the trick of God,
The stink, the perfume of petal attraction,
God is a chameleon and ubiquitous,
In the form of vagrancy, moderate and wealth,

Son is a complicated book to read,
Those who claim to know him are deceived by the book's cover,
His countenance changes like weather,
Despite his state of health, bright or dull,
He would smile and the passers-by will open their hearts like a happy petal,
When he's tired he would sit down and let the customers strain to read him,
When people like him eventually die, there are no signs for that imminence,
Nobody cares; he lives a bird's life in the midst of people,

Begging or no begging,
No guarantee he'll get something to last until the next day,
Every day is uncertain and precarious,
His colleagues are total strangers to him,
He lives with them share everything with them,
He is alone when the circumstances turn to cold,
He may huddle, but not bully the cave master out of his cave,
Survival is tolerance in the dark,
The world is indifferent to his plight,
His hurt is like rubber, painless in the eyes of the scapegoats,
The law protects him but has no tolerance for his twisted tongue,
He's saving energy to survive in the jungle of his mind,
The scapegoats sit on elevated chairs
With the mistaken believe that they own the land,
Perhaps we need a hobo court,
Not a Robocop, to defend the defenceless,

N Nkuna 2012