Maridi

Santino is back with supplies of petrol,
batteries and bottled water, not to mention
his contemplative chin-on-the-wheel diplomacy.

They are equally welcome. Food comes in bowls,
a soup whose meat I can spit into my hand
and re-conceal beneath the liquid.

Simon poses with his rifle,
flashes his fifteen-year-old’s crocodile grin.
Coughs without covering his mouth.

In the white Toyota, a grandmother taps her head
to advertise her wisdom. It is minutes
before I tire of the potholed roads, broken systems.