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Goodbye Beloved Shirt
I traded my well-worn, beloved traditional African shirt in a Brighton bar — a free verse poem.
Beautiful beloved traditional African shirt,
harmony a sexy tango, a flowing satin skirt.
Beneath the African sky vast and wide,
I wore my beloved African shirt with pride.
We strolled along the deserted Brighton pier
in the starless night, without a hint of fear.
At a trendy bar, we bought Remy Martin,
Just you and I, smiling at the guy in tartan
on the other side of the bar.
My dear old tired skivvy traditional Swazi African shirt. You were my companion for years with “a look at me attitude.”
Nearly rags you are, but I can’t just put you in the bin — can I?
Tonight, you are adored by a grey goatee patron in a posh Brighton bar, far from Africa’s twinkling starry sky.
“I like your shirt,” Mike’s lips lisped, looking star-struck by your splendor squatting in his usual seat sipping beer at the bar counter.
“Can I buy it from you, Jay?” he asked when I topped up his empty glass with a large, white-washed, airy-foamy…
