Weekends are flowers rising

With open, welcoming hands

Having drunk the dregs of the

Dew’s bohemian brew

They pounce on the prying eyes

Inviting the hands, the nose for a scented curdle

Twenty, twenty fruits of twenty trees

Stalked in a tall basket at the entrance of the retail store

Each chosen by twenty pairs of probing hands

And flung down the pits of twenty hungry throats

In twenty basins, in twenty minutes

The fruits are buried in the path of the wind

First sight, first chat, first date, first handshake

First hug, first kiss, first flirting touch, first melting

Of the frozen ore, first ruffling of scented feathers

First shearing, first probing of the deep dark terraces

First shock and gush of life in streams of eggy sweat

First loves are made in China

That’s why they do not last…

(From an unfinished sequence…)

© Servio Gbadamosi, March 2012