On Lagos

in the hotel room

where fantasies decay

there is no putrefying stench

no dingy remains

everything is as intact as a crime scene

save the evidence.

we don’t hold requiems for dreams here

when they die

we incinerate them

day dreams have the worst fate

we impale them ourselves

banish them into cisterns

their fates plugged in by sealants

liquid waste

in the land out of the range of  mother’s eyes,

crying is an expansive futility

past warnings skirt by in quick quick trails

you should have known

for mother warned you about lagos.