The children

As if it is left to the dark

rain-glossed trees burdened

with bright ripe citrus

and the long-fingered kikuyu that prowls

the weathered board house

to do something

about the children.

Clenched words

I ask again

as he tamps the black bowl

with a blunt finger and

lights the old briar with a match,

watch him draw, working

those fortress cheeks and jaw

then wait

while following his gaze

through evocative wafts

of sweet sharp smoke

down to the tardy

river below

even as his clenched words

elude me once more.

Addressed to a can

O you can, can you,

with your modest

inscription of 4%,

play the surprised innocent

and deny your bullying?

A mere 330ml,

just a quiet companion

you claim, but when prowling

the town in your press-gang

dirty-dozen packs

can you deny messing

with our sons and our daughters

on these long testing nights?