Small Toiler In Cape Town Poem by Naldo Africa

In the cold morning
he slogs along the chilly road,
yawning drowsily
in an oscitant mode



Worn-out and dirty clothes
he looks like a phantom
so soundless
among his working group



Their bus hurtles forth
they haste and fall and slide
thrusting to get into the bus
others crawl helplessly



Late-night- the darkest hour
the bus swings back,
the worn-out toiler gets out
ruined like a wreck



He could not move a single leg,
in a cold, dead state,
he is helpless in his
face of fate.