When you have time to think too much

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Short Timer

The dog

looks at me and wags its tail.

Ribs showing.

He lets me scratch between the ticks on his ears.

He leans on my knee.

Drooling.

His look seems to tell me:

Go Home.

--L. Powell, near Ervee, Namibia

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Babel Babble

The room echoes conversations,

and they pour into my corner of the lapa.

They are in love and on vacation.

He is alone and shouts at the football match on TV.

They are workers and have many stories.

She is cooking, and calls to her husband, the bar tender.

The words slide around chairs.

Behind the bar.

Under the stove.

Slippery words, like greased eels.

They are there and then quickly gone.

Disappearing beyond my reach.

Like trying to sort a pile of bolts into bins by size,

I struggle to find places to put the words.

My mind grasps at syllables.

Maybe the lovers need to find red shoes tomorrow? Probably not.

Perhaps Mr. Lonely thinks the goal tender is sick? I'm not sure.

The workers both hurt their thumbs today? My best guess.

Did she just run out of salt? Surely not.

I think of the story of the blind men and the elephant.

I'm only touching the tail of these conversations.

Does anyone speak English?

--L. Powell, near Kamanjab, Namibia

When I met his mother

I could guess

You do the work of two men.

I could guess
The cows come when you call them to milking.

I could guess

Bad years have outnumbered the good.

I could guess

You let your grandbabies eat first.

I could guess

Your door is always open.

I could guess

That you only cry at funerals.

I could guess

That you miss him.

I could guess.

But your hands told me.

--L. Powell, on the #Khoadi //Hoas conservancy

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