In the summer sticky heat, Sam sits.
Rocking gently back and forth
in his chair
on the verandah.
The aroma from his pipe
scenting the sultry night air,
blending with jazmine, oleander,
cooking smells, garbage cans.
Amidst the evening shadows
he sits watching
through scotch taped specs
barefoot kids kicking cans in the dusty road.
He swats, "Damn flies."
His tired, brown creased face
fixed in a half smile.
Rocking, watching.
The muted background symphony
of crickets, radios, T.V. sets, sirens,
raised voices, dogs barking, fans whirring,
barely audible to him now.
Wiping his brow
with a sodden handkerchief,
re-lighting his pipe,
he sits rocking, watching.
Teenage boys, faded Levi's, greased back hair,
slouching against withered tree trunks,
on the waste ground, smoking, beer drinking.
Sam, invisible. Rocking, swatting, watching.
Teenage girls sprawled on the sun baked ground
huddling, giggling.
Sweat trickling between small brown breasts.
Long, wiry legs crossing, uncrossing.
The boys saunter over,
laughing, teasing.
Sam watching, rocking, swatting.
They pair up and stroll towards the bushes.
Sam watching, remembering, reminiscing.
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