Interstitial
The sun can't decide if it should stay or leave, so I
Head on down the hill,
Taking advantage of its indecision.
I feel different today, as I take this trek.
Something's not quite right,
But I don't yet know what.
The African women are there, as usual,
Making filthy clothes clean again in their river,
With just a little soap and a lot of effort.
It doesn't sound like a chore,
With all of the joyful singing that
Makes me want to join in with them.
But I am just a boy,
A fact I know all too well.
They see me, yet are too caught up
To acknowledge my presence.
And so, I pass on by,
Headed, I now decide, to the other side of this hill.
Only a small trip, and I'm there soon.
And then see the image I cannot erase, though
I really wish I could:
A slew of tiny crosses, numerals marked by
Chicken scratches.
No number greater than six.
I know I can't stay now;
It's not right.
It's someone else's sacred ground.
Their place to shelve young souls
Who wait to ascend from this mortal world.
Someday I'll be a man.
But thankfully not today.