THE SHADOWS OF KILIMANJARO

The tintinnabulation of the vegetation
in the plastic carcass of memory rings
like roadkill supper. The binge of clicking
heels frustrates birdsong’s pleasure, but
a bushbuck’s careful scatting—like Ella,
sober but still giggly girl-voiced, pushed
by Papa’s mean ride and snare—educates
as it entertains the white man. This plant
smells like sage. This, like Lemon Pledge.
Bees cannot keep up with the demand

of the queen, buried in her mansion, bejeweled
with yummy throbbing torsos. The king
who’s called a president—ivory staff
and infection at his side—bangs the mahogany
and beats enemies on the avenue named for him
and only him. A blow to the head
by the head of state, a blow to the crotch
by the crotch: such sweet irrupting
music of Nairobi makes hot days dance
the broken highlife shuffle of who cares?