Old Men


blue black creased

by living

gin on their breath

underneath the

weight of the crush

of being born invisible

5 dollar cigars and

knowing in their mouths

long eyes pained

by memory

grown in the shadows of years

stacked atop one another

toppling down now

to spell out their

existence leanly

marking thin

lives running like

a river over the shore

so much

so much

not enough light

waiting on the taste of justice


turned sages holding

knowledge like rosary beads

prayed upon with

bloody hands

bony knuckled

holding up the moon

so it can witness

the smoke curling

off the ashes of

their burning dreams

About Ayodele Nzinga, MFA, PhD

I create; therefore I am.
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