All fools make pictures
But pictures are no memories,
They remain darkroom scams;
My mind surpasses every camera.
I’ve tried to touch good times twice
But they elude me, like swinging
Pendulums, cherry mangoes, physics.
So what are my options: Fantasies?
Grandiose ideations? playback video reality?
Or plain youthful CPR?
My thoughts wash in old houses
Fresh with coats of dust.
Torn settees and a creaking dining table
Offering gecko shit as breakfast.
Quick glances challenge cerebral bytes.
Where is the Grandfather clock
With a stainless scrotum, the clattering
Icicles of our curtains, the smell of boiling beans
On sawdust stove, the broken manual rewinder,
The June 12 season?
This poem was first published in On Broken Wings: An Anthology of Best Contemporary Nigerian Poetry edited by Unoma Azuah (DLite 2014) and subsequently in Clinical Blues (WriteHouse, 2014)