With a face painted with disdain,
My Baba just spitted a maxim;
That the door to a man's heart
is to burden his tommy with
the products from *the kitchen;*
That the key to a man's brain
is the drama filmed for him,
In *the other room;*
And to the rooms belongs our own paragon(s) of beauty.
With a face sprayed
with the polish of candidness,
I say: "If at the backyard of his life,
A man still nurses such plant of folly
in the plantation of his mind,
Never will he savour senses from the angels."
Little wonder my Baba put his hands
in his God-knows-if-there-is-anything-there pocket,
And fails to exhume *the clamoured change.*
With a face wiping fears with its tears,
I stand before my Baba and I say:
"Until you value her words,
Even those served in *the living room,*
As divine epistle;
No matter how loud your dream may scream,
The change will never return from his slumber."
©Ayeyemi Taofeek (ASWAGAAWY)
_the toothpick that walks like a man._