Lagos

Dew makes me nervous sometimes.

I think I have seen it fall,
Once or twice,
Although those memories
Are distant like the town square of Lagos.

Dew is interesting, because
I don't think it actually falls.
It terrifies me sometimes
To think that all of us are on the same ground
Somewhere, that the pristine--to many
a vacationer--plains I walk from day to day
Are tainted, the dew that sits upon them each morning
Just residue from the sieve of magma between
Our side of the world and theirs;
The clear, cool pleasant dew
Which acts as glue
For dirt to flip-flopped feet
Is just filtered blood and vomit.

I may never enter the ground square of Lagos;
The only reason I know that name or
That it's in Nigeria is because I happened to be looking
At some (text-only) website. I have never even seen a photo.

I have no proof it exists.

Its residents do not speak my language
And its homeless people could only dream
Of a Walgreen's to beg outside of, for a
Should-be friendly "feed the homeless" champion
College student who
Might have a piece of ice, but slams
A door in their face, screaming
With all the fear of a raindrop
Heading toward the ground.

There are some days
I cannot walk on the ground
Knowing what I do.

(I don't really know shit).

Hours pass and the sun sets
And I am now ready to leave work
After what I consider to be a fairly successful day,
And I am sweeping the deck that overlooks our makeshift beach.

There is a large bird below me.

He does not move.
At first I think, narcississtically, that he enjoys being here,
Maybe not because of me,
But because of the lights;
It's good fishing.

(Then I actually take advantage
Of my position meters above the ground).

His right foot is caught in a plastic bag,
And I am caught between staying and leaving.

"That bird is going to kick your ass," says the voice
Of the hostess who hands me the scissors I bring with me
On my way out the door and around the fence
And onto the beach on which I looked down.

It is imposing at first.
I begin to move quickly into the water,
Then I stop.
Then I retreat.

It is unclear to me whether I do so
To avoid scaring the bird
Or to avoid wetting my work shoes
And pants. I begin to roll my pant leg up.
I stop, walking into the water
Directly behind the bird.

I slowly lift the bag up in hopes it will
Wriggle free, only to find a piece of fishing line
Entangled in it. I cut the line and the bird moves a few feet,
then stops in its tracks.

It is probably stationary because of exhaustion,
And I leave in belief that I did the most I could,
Looking behind all the while
To see the same expression,
The same stagnation that was present
When the fishing line was still intact.

I only hope he is gone before the dew falls.