you whose huts are firewood of burning gas
time to woo the ocean is around your neck
if your slippers itch your feet like thorns, man-
age the groan till the wretchedness of the nail
whisper to your leg, the notorious surveyor,
not to study the geography of streets
whose maps are prettied with contours
for the land is black, and red, full of blood
of those whose bodies are decayed by the
acidic air that travels through the town
the road has become an arsenal of traps, tell
the lenders to bury their legs under the coffins
of their roofs & before this trembling house faces
the anger of wind; marry your hands before your face
befriend your holy rope & consult your divining chain
& pray, may travellers today not assemble at the
heavensgate, may busses not crumble on humble
roads, may we survive the circular poison, Corona!
Wale Olaogun
[23/03/2020]
