in africa we hand in our tax returns
under trees tables
desk friendly men and women in the shade
brown and large olive eyes
white teeth smile
our precious pieces stamped and dropped
from dizzy heights into deep deep darkness
environmentally correct boxes
we are happy in the falling leaves
winter sun warm on our heads
we smile on our papers and have to watch
or the wind will never stop paging and who will be able
to make our
tax
assessments
if
that
happens
YOU ARE READING
laid
Poetrychick: am i a people? chicken: no, you're a chicken chick: do chickens come from people? chicken: no. chickens come from eggs. chick: are eggs born? chicken: no. eggs are laid chick: are people laid? chicken: some are. others are chicken anyway, the...
