the chickens go to bed.

A short poem I wrote a bit ago around sunset in my village.

Chickens clucking their way to bed in the mango tree.
Lentils on the stove.
Rain falling steadily. Now intermittently.

Red wine in a rusted tin cup.
Men sewing fishing nets.
Not itching.
Not itching mosquito bites.

Neighbor girl gutting fish. Now frying fish.
Mothers calling their children home.
Me: quiet in the dusky corners of my doorstep.
Wearing blue lamba, loosely hanging over tired legs.

Chickens cluck softly.
Now fall silent and fade into leaves.

I don't want to be anywhere but here,
living my life away from
life
in my home away from home
away from home away
from home.