the beloved tune
plays in a taxi-local
at the end of our day
we neighbours three
surviving an outing
to beaches nearby
formerly forbidden
(cancer-stick toting
fire-water imbibing
humanoids one and all
were on the beach
and in the train back
where a Durban family
had a beer swilling
cigarette brandishing
male member in tow)
Imagine being in Syria
is the comment made
by a relation encountered
back in the village-local
(our earth-ghetto globalized)
his cousin having told him
of the previous day’s
Armed Forces Day to-do
(the times they have been
a-changing and transforming)
he raving about their band
doing Brenda Fassie’s
My Black President
and its joyful response
his partner though
remarks on the loudness
of the weapons of war
in the local skies
(who are we protecting
what are we defending again)
Imagine being in Syria
Returned we are, to the village-local; our day done, Sunday 17 February 2019.