A weary writer filled with dreams comes home,
He puts his tiny bag on the table,
He puts his pen and notebook on the table,
Both heavy with words,
He puts his round spectacles on the table,
Heavy with the vision of becoming a better writer,
He pats his pockets, then puts a few coins on the table,
He puts his hat on the table,
He puts his muddy shoes on the table,
He puts miles walked on the table,
He wipes the sweat off his forehead,
A tear drop falls on the table,
Heavy with sorrow and doubts,
He thinks of his mother,
“Why are you crying? Everything will be better soon.”
He puts that thought on the table too,
What if writing doesn’t work out?
What if to people, these are just words?
He feels hopeless,
He puts that on the table too,
On the floor, there are roughly folded papers,
He picks them up,
He puts them on the table,
He puts his family’s photo album on the table,
His phone rings, it’s a Cell C message, not what he expected,
He puts it on the table,
He suddenly thinks of back home,
The aroma of his mother’s porridge,
The bubbling sound as she stirs it,
The squabbles with his siblings,
The squawks of their chickens,
He puts all of these on the table,
All of his burdens, memories,
His doubts, and his many dreams,
He puts all on the table,
It shakes but doesn’t collapse, like him.