there used to be
poems
for every
pavement crack
ballads
for every
boy with
stained sleeves
and a hole in his chest
couplets
for every
gambler with a broken dream
losing fast on a threadless seam
elegies
for every
father who lived
too short
and died too
long
epics
for every
Madiba-shuffling
Ghandi
with his face on a t-shirt
made in shanghai
ghazals
for every
lover so loving
love itself could not requite
odes
for every
sunset
burnt behind an
eyelid
but now
my verse
is
blank.
