Women on mopeds
Welcome
Language lessons, Part I
Language lessons, part II
Taxi serenade
Producing famine
Rejoice and be glad
Cheap wood, priceless forest
La Petite Côte
The (agri) bizness
Frigo blues
Beggar's anonymous
On a mission
Cradle robbers
Little company
Incident at the laundrymat
Turkey daze
Encounter with a fruit tree

Welcome

Welcome to the third world,
bring a date but lock your car
and don't look so surprised
if you don't know where you are.

Wild dancers in the big hotel,
the ones we saw on channel twelve,
nobody works from noon to three
or eight to noon, if you ask me (good time for a shopping spree).

The dogs here all look like mutts,
the natives live in quansett huts,
the weather comes from paradise,
a cardboard shack would suit us nice (a bargain at HALF the price).

Welcome to the third world,
hope you're not too late,
there's a killing to be made
in beachfront real estate.

With each new tourist on its shore,
their consciousness is raised summore,
how else do you teach a nation
the concept of a vacation (forced relocation?)?

Right this way to the bon marché,
I haven't made a sale all day,
despite the economic crisis
Igot first world clothes at third world prices (the veddy nicest).

Welcome to the third world,
nothing is at stake,
if you don't mind, from time to time
leaving beggars in your wake.

The theater is air-conditioned,
the restaurant has my favorite dish n'
look straight ahead, try not to listen,
'til we reach the Catholic mission.

I wouldn't say that brochures lie
but I ain't seen corned beef on rye,
the French bread comes with real jam, but
it's hard to find a decent ham (from an imam).

What are they complaining for?
it's beautiful from the fourteenth floor,
far away from all those flies,
look how much a dollar buys (they've never been that high).

Babies wear their hungry voices,
the simple life has no hard choices,
at least say hi when you pass by,
we're all the same the day we die (so milk it dry).

Welcome to the third world,
in case you missed the sign,
aside from fancy party talk.
it's just a state of mind.

Language lessons, part I

Wake up at the crack of dawn,
shoot the rooster, mow the lawn,
wash you face and shake your head,
eat some porridge, back to bed.

Rise again and write a letter,
now you should be feeling better,
brush your teeth and comb your hair,
peek through the crack and watch them stare.

Make your way to the shade and say
you've got to study every day.
under scrutiny of countless childern,
seems like there's a hunnert million.

Can't think straight with all the noise,
it's pretty tough maintaining poise,
books won't work, they'll have to wait,
close your eyes and concentrate . . .

. . . wake up just in time for lunch,
or woken by an errant punch?
studying's important shit, but
you've got to eat--keep the body fit.

After lunch it's just too hot,
if you studied now it would all be forgot,
Better rest and build your strength
For study periods of greater length . . .

. . . The sun has reached the end of its arc,
no use reading in the dark,
but I'll go to bed early, wake up strong,
and tomorrow I'll study twice as long.

Language lessons, part II

Can I have that hat of yours?
Okay, I'll take the t-shirt instead,
What's that book he's writing in?
Where's he going and where's he been?

Is there lots of money there?
Will you take me when you go?
When ARE you going, anyway?
And what does he mean he's here to stay?

Why don't you dance? Why won't you talk?
Why don't you eat? What's wrong with our food?
Aren't you going to wash before dinner?
Why won't he eat? He keeps getting thinner.

Are you going to read? Are you going to study?
Give him some peanuts he looks like he's hungry,
this is your nose. This is your head,
what did he say? Did you hear what he said?

You learned our language you know how to greet,
when we call you to eat you come and you eat,
but where do you go when the ground meets the sun
with those thoughts in your head that won't roll off your tongue?

Waiting for the taxi to fill ...

Oh God here they come those street urchins again,
singing haunting tunes in the windows of the van
with a voice of despair, but they're not aware,
just got to fill up that tomato sauce can.

Why can't they leave can't they see that I'm tired??
They're certainly not the Vienna Boys' Choir,
(It may hurt your ears, that's not your worst fear,
fix on the frying pan, turn from the fire).

They're pesky as flies but harder to shoo,
compliments of the Grand Marabout,
tomorrow's scholars must beg for today's,
a real holy man must first pay his dues.

Line them all up one by one single file,
when the last straw nears the rear turn the dial,
oh what a mess, I get so depressed,
lucky for us that they can still smile.

Producing famine

Please don't turn that TV dial!
Won't you sponsor just one child?
Hunger like you never seen,
call the number on your screen.

Movie stars can cry with ease,
how can you ignore their pleas?
Those kids'll feast on lemonade,
once the TV bills are paid.

Now we'll take you on location,
(always good for new donations),
Get that one with sunken eyes and
point the camera til he cries.

That swollen-bellied hungry glare?
Put the oboe solo there.
Third world on late night TV,
everyone's a refugee.

Moussa's family (neighbors, too)
comes running when the camera crew,
pulls up in the shiny care,
they think he's a movie star.

He gets lots of clothes and books
(not to mention funny looks),
times are hard for families,
with just one celebrity.

To the mission school he goes,
he tells of sodas in frigos,
his cousins fight for empty bottles,
Model Christian, or Christian Model?

Tired of famine on TV?
Redirect your energies,
toward the donors that we churn out
suffering from compassion burnout.
Before you leave that TV consel,
won't you sponsor just one sponsor?

Rejoice and be glad

Rivers of life pass by,
will they return?
Some have doubts,
think a lot about
trying to live without
and not getting burned.

Oceans of life slap shores,
only to recede.
Their gentle breeze
blows to tease
the wilting leaves
of fruitless deed.

Pools of life stand sunstunned,
til hot children play.
Where parasites breed
and spread the seed
while mothers bleed
for the price they pay.

Small bodies of water,
vulnerable to attack.
An unseen knave
in what can save
the life it gave
can take it back.

Clouds of life overhead,
bring only shade.
Some will say
(as they fill the ice tray)
that this is the day
the Lord hath made.

Cheap wood, priceless forest

We plant the millet every year
and pray the rains will come,
our eyes fixed on the ground, we scrape
and listen for the mighty drum.

The wind and rain rise from the east
behind the blackened sky,
the children watch it cross the fields
the first to spot it gives a cry.

They scurry for the closest hut
beneath the pelted grass,
we feel the chill and hear the wind
and hope the hut was built to last.

Rain left behind the wind goes toward
the village down the road,
where children scan it for a sign
and hope it hasn't dumped its load.

The times the sky brings only dust
the harvest isn't good,
a long lean dry season's one of
the reasons Allah gave us wood.

We cut the trees down, split them up
and take the wood to town,
and then the ones who make black coals
they burn the tree down to the ground.

The city people buy it up
like there were no more trees,
the women light the wood to cook
the men burn coals to brew the tea.

I take the money that I made
and spend it all on grain.
and ride the empty cart back home
and wake at dawn to start again.

La Petite côte

The time
I was at the coast
what I remember most
was walking home from market day
and something like a giant Mosque
was in my way.

The trail
it split in two
and went around a fence
and since I knew
the beach was hardly out of reach
that path I took
to go around and take a look.

Behind the wall
the grass was green
as leaves on trees
in rainy seasons,
water sprayed up from the ground
in little spurts,
then came back down, that
grass as short as my donkey's mane-
he craned his neck to reach
some fresh
and the mosque was high as the sky
and the huts were big as a
shade tree-the way the post office be
so that's where they sleep
and the toubabs were there
like I saw on a bus once,
windows rolled up
drinkin' out of their cups.

They were walkin' around
with the glasses in hand,
the men with their bellies
white as the sand
and assess as flat as a rock
but the women
were more of a shock
with the undies on bottom
and bras on the top
not a skirt or a shirt
or a scarf for their heads
they were red from the sun
some would walk some would run
to the blue water pool
where they'd wash and keep cool.

We turned at the sand
and headed up land
and a black man was coming
with something to say
but the pink-breasted toubabs
were beached in his way where they cooked
on the ground so he skirted
around and we met further down
and he said something French and
my head shook
and pointing I showed him the fence
he said 'this is for toubabs
so hurry on by and the next time
you pass don't come on this side.'
I asked 'since when to toubabs have mosques?
it must cost'
'that's no mosque' he said
'it's full of water
to keep the grass green
and we water each hour to keep
all the flowers in bloom
and the showers are in
every room and the bar
and the pool and the cars we wash
toubabs are picky they gripe some
and don't like things sticky
and do as they please and
are liable to switch to Hotel Lebanese
or the German resort-the one
north of the port and we're
dead if they find out Club Med
costs the same, but what's in a name?'
I said 'what is the name?'and he
looked down the coast and
the shoreline of fishermen's boats
and said 'la petite côte'-all the way
from Dakar past this spot
and one day all this land'll be bought.'
I said 'oh' and thanked Allah we lived
Where no toubab would go
(but would sure like that mosque full of water).
He left in a hurry to chase off two boys
by the fence made a noise caught a glimpse
cuz the blistering fools
in the sun by the pool
want it quiet and after all
didn't they buy it?

But no matter how much you preach
if a donkey is ready
he'll shit on the beach
it was green and I left it
there for the black man to clean
it was his job-he's paid by the toubabs and
why do they come with their
backs to our land and
their toes in the sand? (do they work?)
just to let their hides tan??
We save that for a goat,
But then we don't live at 'la petite côte.'

The (agri) bizness

Dirt is dirt and a hoe's a hoe
and our company man can triple your yields,
the wheels of progress never turned faster
(ask a squirrel what it thinks of a wheel).

You'll have to catch up to the bus of change
before it catches up to you,
the smoke in the rear may steal your breath--
it's better than what the front bumper will do.

As you probably know, we're in the bizness
of helping, so let's get down to brass tacks,
famine means bizness and bizness means profit
and we're getting stockholders off of our backs.

We've developed a seed that'll grow in the desert
with our fertilizer made especially for you,
and all for one unbeatable price,
we'll even throw in some banned pesticides, too.

We're feeding the world, don't you watch our commercials?
how can you say that we're driven by greed?
with pesticide warnings in English and French and
a special precaution for those who can't read?

A tongue droopin' dog on the hunt in the woods,
the ants have no chance in the crunch for the kill,
if the dog's too slow he'll go home to his dish,
so don't mind me if I root for the squirrel.

The frigo blues (dreaming of grids)

My wife she buy food in the marché,
each morning she go there, each day,
a long way but she don't complain none,
she get muddy wet when the rain come.

Me and my pick work the well hole,
so she can put fresh in the lunch bowl,
today's is as far as she go,
cuz I can't afford her a frigo.

She go with Maymuna from next door,
they both dress up nice-we don't look poor,
they greet and they smile and they talk price,
and they fill up their bowls with the white rice.

The women they sell from the hard ground,
some come from the bush, some from town.
the villagers' produce they price small,
so they can sell out when the bush call.

The men with the tables do good trade,
some under tin roof in the hot shade,
some sellin' strange clothes worn by toubabs,
don't know if they dead, or jus' robbed.

My wife find whatever she needin',
and she hurry 'fore sellers start leavin,'
when they gone just ground scraps survive,
for the beggars and vultures and flies.

She and Maymuna they come home,
she set the black pot on the three stones,
and go to my well, draw the water,
then she fire up the wood that I bought 'er.

She don't mind no frigo, she once say,
(or leavin' the house for the marché,
and the talk at the end of the long hike),
it's poundin' the millet she don't like.

The woman work hard what does she get?
even Friday she work until sunset,
when I get paid I'll start lookin,'
for a young wife to help with the cookin.'

One day the hut buzz with that cool noise,
we store lots of food for my two boys,
but for now we all drink our milk sour,
cuz a frigo don't work without power.

Women on mopeds

My baby rides a moped,
bush taxi not her style.
the way the wind flow through her bubu,
make me wanna smile.

She got a monthly payment,
but that don't get her down,
she go where she want to go
as long as it's in town.

She don't take no rider,
she not that kinda gal,
maintain control, don't wanna roll
down into those canals.

When she at a stoplight,
she let that shoulder bare.
some say women shouldn't ride, but
everybody stare.

One thing I can't figure out
'bout her and her machine,
is how she ride to work and back
and stay so squeaky clean.

My baby gets me down it hurts me so
I tell you why,
cuz when we meet, I'm on my feet,
she passes me right by.

Beggars' anonymous

Toubab when you pass by me,
what is it those cat's eyes see
that turns them to the noisy street
so you can't hear me when I greet?

Are you 'fraid you'll catch my mange
if you keep you pocket change?
Or maybe if you give to me
that everyone around will see?

Is that why you hurry by?
Does the sunlight hurt your eyes?
Or is it what you never say
That makes you paler every day?

My palm is flat, my bones are showing,
no fingers left to grasp a coin,
my ears are sharp, I know the sound,
but I can't pick it off the ground.

Lay gently please, my palm is up,
I'll drop it in my metal cup,
I found it in a pile of grey
some poor old fool had tossed away.

Our sister in the metal cart
braves traffic to perform her art
and jump the curb before the green,
when motors howl and streets turn mean.

Are there beggars on your streets?
Isn't it polite to greet?
And what could make you want to be
so far from home and family?

Your brow pours out the hours you waste,
no time left to arrest your pace,
the sidewalk is alive (with us)
you tell yourself you'll miss the bus,
if you think this nightmare ends,
cross the street and meet my friends.

All you've got to do is give,
all I've got to do is live,
we may be one in Allah's eyes,
but no one told the rats or flies.

On a mission

We're missions and we're sal, uh, vatin,'
sorry if we kept you waitin,
the duty's paid on the flags and poles
to stake our claim to your lost souls.

We were sent here by the grace
of God, who's given us a place
in town, that's where we'll spend our nights
as soon as we get water and lights.

Look at all those runny noses,
praise the Lord and pass out the clothes,
how to tell a naked heathen,
they closed down the Garden of Eden?

Competition everywhere,
Christians fighting for a share,
a million souls up for grabs,
our Memphis branch is keeping tabs.

WE're the missions sent from God
and not to be confused with frauds who
preach false words-the very worst,
remember where you heard it first.

To facilitate our bible class
we will have a special mass
and baptize you the Christian way
to give you names that WE can say.

Hand the girls those uniforms
and put the boys in separate dorms,
sorry the family's got to go, but
Luke twelve fifty-three sez so.

Tradition's not an easy foe,
but we're prepared to undergo,
many droughts and much relief
to rid you of your false beliefs.

We're missions and we'll take a stand,
we'll help you with your family plan,
no other mission will eclipse
our ever-growing membership.

You say your main concern's survival?
can't attend the next revival?
when your load's heavy, think of us,
we carry the burden of the cross.

Sometimes we're misunderstood,
we're doing this for your own good, but
from our homes they try to yank us,
some day when you're dead, you'll thank us.

'as sudden as a heart attack,
you lost us when you turned your back,
but don't feel bad, you sowed the seed,
where else would we have learned to read?'

Cradle robbers (a mother's lament)

We work the fields
and cook the meals
with water that we drew.
We pray for rain
and pound the grain
and get to eat it, too.
And wash the clothes and
pinch the snot from baby's nose,
where flies are hard to shoo.

We scrape and hoe
til sun gets low
and backs won't straighten out.
The air is still
at least until
a hungry voice cries out.
Walk home to chores
and maybe bathe ourselves before
we bring the dinner out.

The bowls all washed
I check the cloth
that covers baby's face.
The flies moved on
but when they've gone
Mosquitoes take their place.
Their hungry roar informs us
they've come back for more,
bare skin is not to waste.

When huts cool off
or babies cough
It's time to go inside.
The husbands rest
in huts with nets
Like veils around a bride.
They chew on me, can't make 'em let
the baby be,
though Allah knows I've tried.

The water brings
a lot of things
not all of them are good.
Some kill the young and
when they're done
they go back to the wood.
Without a net just try to sleep
and not regret,
I only wish I could.

Company

You're never alone in a house,
certainly don't need a mouse,
the itch on your head,
the skin that turns red,
the faint thought it might be a louse.

Cabin fever's the state of your mind,
when you're not confined with your kind,
think of the ticks
or the black things with six
or eight legs, it'll help you unwind.

Some say a man's home is his castle,
when insects invade, it's a hassle,
spray 'em and swat 'em
can't sleep til you've shot 'em
with poison from cans with clogged nozzles.

Think of a mountaintop glance,
the people and cars look like ants,
could be as we wonder
just whose roof we're under,
we're crawling around in god's pants.

Incident at the laundrymat

She had these wild, beady eyes,
soft as bloated lightning skies,
darted round the room like flies,
betrayed a vacant smile.

Coulda sworn she had antennae,
obviously no beginner,
mapping out her own agenda,
left my hankie by her pile.

Eyes and mouth began to dance,
pestered from my waking trance,
object of her circumstance,
bowed heads peered from sticky seats.

Accusing me of spreading plague,
crusty hankie fueled her rage,
rationale seemed pretty vague,
swiveled 'round to fold her sheets.

Her magic worked a spell on me,
mind moved like a freezing bee,
printed words so plain to see,
whizzing by like spin & rinse.

Put the hankie in my pocket,
time will pass if no one stops it,
have to come again to wash it,
maybe when it's not so tense.

Turkey daze

It's that special time, once a year,
round four o'clock in the afternoon,
when we praise ancestors' good sense for
sending natives to the moon.

Until, that is, we realized the moon
was more than rocks and sand,
if we had known what lay below
they never woulda got that land
(a soul for a load of coal's a fair trade, you understand ... ).

And since it hits too close to home
for most of us to bear,
we give our thanks to god, but first
we take away the empty chairs.

So when you carve the bird inside that home with heat
(consider the source),
the pioneers had not yet found a source so neat
(they turned to force).

Eat and drink and eat summore,
(Now's the time to thank the lord)
until you're laid out on the floor
(for bellies that did not explode).

Separate the white and dark meat,
dread the dish in need of cleaning,
and wave good bye to dearly departed natives (they were just here ... ),
for whom 'turkey' surely has a special meaning (see ya next year ... ).

Encounter with a fruit tree

A girl went skippin' through the forest,
skip dee dip dee dee,
hadn't gone too whole lot far
is when she happened on a tree.

Biggest tree she ever saw,
craned her neck and dropped her jaw.

Everywhere she looked was branches,
branches hung with leaves,
some with hair or barbs or ribs
and some as big as babies' bibs.
The trunk was gray and smooth and roots meandered out
Like lizards' tails. No! Rocket fins! Or shell-less snails!
And then plunged down
into the ground
(like roots is s'posed to do, I've found).
And hangin' from those leafy branches wha'd she find?
Well you should know-
Flowers? No (good guess though),
but fruit of every kind.

Every kind's a whole lot more
than peaches, pears or plums,
but namin' them all seems like, well,
like countin' leaves when autumn comes.

How big a tree? She couldn't see,
the other side, although she tried.
It led her eyes up to the sky
and took her neck on quite a ride.
But if you measure trees
by walking 'round them
in a morning breeze,
well this began in sunrise dew
and ran 'til nearly two,
when lunch rose up and said 'yoo hoo?'

"What to eat," she said,
and then a noise bounced through the tree
& off her head.
It was lunch and it was red.
"No thank you apple."
She pulled down a banana instead.

And as she peeled she said "oh my,"
and looked around, what did she see?
"This tree," said she, "this canopy,
is full of fruit, from where I be.
There's mangos, cherries, oranges, pears,
some with spikes n'stripes n'hair,
guava, melons, breadfruit, plums"
(so stay on your toes 'case a big wind comes,
although she wouldn't mind the plums … ),
think I'm gonna get me some."
But which and where?
"Oh what to do!" she said and said
'til half past two,
and that's when lunch, a little louder,
yodled out "YOO HOO!"
And then she knew (that is, what to do).

"'Scuze me," said the parrot, perched on a branch
and pointing his green-feathered wing
"are you thinking, perchance,
of climbing, or jumping, or hanging, or dangling,
squeezing, eating or otherwise handling fruit from this tree?"

"Who me?" said the girl, "why yes, I'm hungry, you see,
I haven't had lunch and it's well after three,
And that fruit looks delicious."

"Why not," squawked the yellow-beaked parrot "hop down
to the lake and eat fishes?"

"Becuz," said the girl, "Girls don't hop and I'm here and this tree
it's got all sorts of fruit don't you see?
And besides fish smell bad n' my dad,
he's the one who gets fishes
an' cleans 'em an' cooks 'em,
I just wash the dishes,
I just want a few, I just wanna get," her eyes darting around,
"a little dessert for Annie-the-Conda, my pet," she lied
"that's a snake."

"We know it's a snake so don't take our fruit," said a monkey,
trying to choose between snooty and grumpy,
"we need what this tree grows,
if it snows, if the wind blows,
if clouds keep their water,
the heat gets much hotter or drier
or heaven forbid there's a fire,
well, what will we eat?"

"Oh I won't take too many," she said
and then "say," as she tilted her head
and she saw it, the top of the tree,
she barely could see
through a hole in the branches,
only in books had she seen--
a speckle of purple, framed in green,
"isn't that," she fingered, "a mangosteen??"

Yes it was, indeed. "But whyzit here? Those things
grow in Asia."

"We know that, my dear,"
said the monkey.

"Well I've got to have it," she said.

"Well okay, then grab it dag nabbit,
but pleeeease," screeched the parrot,
"this isn't your feast,
leave the rest for the jungle
and all of us beasts
like the monkeys and apes and the bats
and yes, even the rats,
and the squirrels,
ants and penguins,
you hear? Little girl?"

She said "Penguins? In jungles? Absurd!
Why whoever heard?"

"Why not? It's a bird,"
un-convinced the green parrot,

"Now go get your fruit," said a ferret,
"climb up to the top, don't stop,
bring it down and then hop to your shop
or whatever you call that square thing rising out of the ground
where you live, near that, that …"

"town.. It's a house," retorted the girl
as she spotted a low-hanging branch,
where a plump juicy cherry was catching her glance.

"Just one," she said, to the rhythm of eyes that were rolling in
heads of the monkey and parrot, who just couldn't bear it (not wanting to share it).
"Why can't she just eat a carrot?
Or make a banana peel hat, and wear it?
Or perhaps break a strap on her sandal and stop to repair it?
But nooooo, she'll go to the top,
and she's not gonna stop
'til her pockets are full, and the fruit spilling out
goes 'kik-klak-klok kerplop!'"

So with cherry in pocket, the little girl straddled the branch and reached for a limb,
The tree was sort of a monkey gym, except that the branches were
fatter than bars, and all full of leaves (and then there's the fruit), and okay, it's alive and it's
bigger than seventy-five monkey gyms,
but other than that, and a beehive, by squinting just right it
looked like a monkey gym, a real monkey gym
'til her eyes were surprised by a mango big as a fist
(if you throw in the wrist),

"Oh I'll just take that mango," she whisped,
"it looks squishy and sweet,
it'll fit in my pocket real neat,
oh look, there's a kiwi, I'll hold that and climb
with one hand, it's all hairy
and look over there! Blackberries!
There's room in my pocket,"
the girl she kept climbing and finding new fruits,
there were oranges and lemons, and little papayas,
she wanted to try, after all,
there isn't a store and no money to buy, crammed into now
purple pockets and under her arms, mandarins, coconuts,
burglar alarms couldn't stop her.

Nor could the monkey or parrot, not even the ferret
they watched her grab this and then that and then balance
some fruits on her head, like a hat,
'course a slippery few went kersplicketysplat cuzza where she was at--real high
as she clumbed her way
up toward the sky through the shade of the tree
that would whisper when breezes would tickle the leaves
and then whisk over
boughs, twigs, branches and cows
that were lost in the forest.
& the morest she fruitlooked the morest she saw and
those beasts? They kept squawking
but she just ignored it, and as for the fruit
she was starting to hoard it,
that means it was more than enough
she was filling her deep purple pockets with stuff
and she took off her socks and filled those,
and she sandwiched blueberries between all her toes,
afterthought about storing a grape in her nose
(which woulda worked better than using her elbows . . . ).

"Don't forget," said the monkey (who'd settled on snooty),
"You came for the mangosteen, not tutti frutti,
I feel it's my duty
to tell you, your pockets, well, how can I say it?
They're leaking,
your blousey is melting,
the tree limbs are creaking,
and your shower of fruit has stirred up the ants on the ground,
who are breaking their lines!
And in between fruit bombs some ask 'is the end of the world
far behind??'"

"I camp heowppit, I wan alla fwoots," she said through an apple,
whose worm was considering pulling up roots (that means leaving),
which isn't so easy for worms who've just eaten "oh whook, whairs zuh
top! Ptoooo-ey. . . "
She spit out the apple,
the melon dropped,
her chin pressed down on yellowy slop,
elbows cradling greenishy glop,
hairstyle bordering on clownish mop.

"Three branches til the tip-top tree,
there's the only fruit for me,"
purple as the iris' tongue that greets the closing scissors hung
the mangosteen she'd almost won,
velvet dark on golden sun,
three more branches, two then one,

She looked around and for the first time found
the branches perched with birds,
some were brown
and some had words
for her and some had heard
the story from the parrot down below
flapped up here to stare at her and maybe show
they don't approve of little girls who fill their arms
and pockets up with fruit
& then let half go splickety sploot.

She didn't like their look and so
she clumbed a branch or two,
that's when the mangosteen
came into view.

She took a step and almost tripped,
blueberry slipped
between her toes,
she lost her grip and started falling from the nose,
had to lose the fruit soze
she could hang around, even if it
was now upside down. . . .

Hanging by her legs she heard a voice,
A squeaky voice not squawky like the parrot
she screwed her neck to see, a bee? No,
yellow-black up in the tree, though,
jack fruit dressed in tuxedo? No.

The girl, head tilted, T-shirt melted, pressing on
the last smashed fruit
against her chin
to hold it in, a squinty grin,
said "upside down is hard to see,
but your look rings a bell for me."

"Lucky girl, you almost fell,
I just arrived, but others tell
you came up for the mangosteen,
but somehow still
you managed to spill
and drop and splickety splop
you've left a trail of sticky slop
from big branch bottom to tippy top."

The girl kept squinting, sure she'd seen it
somewhere, maybe in a dream,
a book, a television screen?
"Sorry, but the mangosteen,
that whitish fruit with purple skin,
it was just here, have you seen it?"
A silhouette against the sun she saw the outline of this fowl,
it coulda been an owl,
a hawk? She almost grabbed a fig
but stopped
"that mangosteen's around here near the top …"

"oh that!" it said.

"Yes that, I've come from way down there
to right up here, it's really why I climbed"

"then why the other fruit?"

"Oh those, well they sure sounded tasty at the time,"
The time!! She thought, "please Mr. Bird, I can't
see you through squinty eyes,
but have you seen my purple prize?
It must be almost half past five,
that's nearly six."

"Oh, you mean this,"
he held it up, and there it was,
the mangosteen,
the girl (still upside down) said
"can you stretch your wing?
I can't quite reach."

"I am," he said, "I am a bird, that is,
and here's my wing,
but I can't fly and I don't sing,
and here's your precious mangosteen."

"Why thank you," said the girl "Good bye,
and anyway, whoever heard of wing-ed birds that cannot fly?"

The sun behind a cloud, she tried, she squinted hard
with both her eyes
and finally saw the creature who
had given up the purple prize

"A PENGUIN?? in a tree??
This cannot be!"

That's when she slipped, she lost her grip,
it seemed to her the trip back down,
bouncing through the leafy crown,
went pretty quick,
next thing she knew
she's on the ground, surrounded by some sticky goo
and staring up at yellow-beak-ed you-know-who.

"Next time," the parrot squawked, "I'll get your fruit
if you make up your mind, choose what you want
and leave the rest behind."

But the girl did not go back.
She wasn't scared--it wasn't that.
She just thought each fruit should have a tree.
And penguins, should live closer, to the sea . . .

© Bill Grigsby 1986 - 2009