Laundry Soap

the Plaza Molo transformed.
where is lawn grown green
that seated last December?

dead lifeless
garden remnants
“are you drawing church?”

asks policeman, pointing
to red notebook
‘no’ hear myself reply

‘writing it’
smiles approvingly
denied

rain
centuried brick
falling

vine casacades
past iron rusted
peaks

while sun scorched
leaves dry season Mary
sitting stained

resplendent
her little son
until densely loaded tricycle

bursts its plastic bags
along dusty bitumen
striding

over
protector rails
little garden

help woman
torn clothing
pick-up bars laundry soap

busted rappers
awkward handfuls
smiling suddenly

remember beggar
leaping into the air
will already be drinking

liquor i commanded him
not to buy. policeman
stern for safety

‘he’ll just buy drink with that ma’am’
‘i know’ sighed out helpless reply
and i wonder

if that beggar
still has a name
the same

as when he was born a boy
as when he was a child
as when he was a human being

alive with hope
and promises
of love

holding up
little hands
his mother

same exhalted expression
baby jesus looks
his own mother

high above Plaza Molo
taxi horn scatters
to the edge

road
strangely climbing
through door

and realising
my hands.
they smell of laundry soap

© 2015 Melinda Irvine

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