BY MOAGI MASIKE
The pozi shack,
It stands near the tuck shop,
Simple as it is
Not too tall,
It boasts it’s medium-height,
A worn and rustic beauty
It has a chimney,
And two windows with cardboards as
The window panes and a house number
On the old door
The red stoep, like a white lady’s lips,
Shines from a distance,
Mama had polished it before we opened
Our eyes in the morning
Food retailer catalogues clinging to the wall,
Buckets filled with overflowing water
And a candle is on the rickety table,
And my deceased father’s chair still
Standing there
Our pozi shack,
Built tough by rough, overworked hands
Of half-drunk men, chatting about
Football and “tarven stories” in the heat
I loved it on rainy days,
As the raindrops landed on the rooftop,
I listened to the pitter-patter of the
Raindrops and became sleepier by the
Minute
AERODROME 