The Spectator by Frances H Kakugawa


In the burial grounds of senses lay
One man alone who thinks he lives.

He quenches thirst with scotch and water.
He watches bathers in the sea.

He sits in joy as two lovers love
On cinema screen and TV.

Unlike the frog who plunges in
Off his pad of native green,

Unlike the child who hunts and finds
That cherry in the forgotten fields.

He eats the fruits of Sara Lee
Thawed and warmed at 300 degrees.

He presses play to hear the rape
Of nature’s song on plastic tape.

Herein lives a man
Dead.

(lst published in Golden Spike, 1973)
Copyright 2006 Frances H Kakwgawa
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