Weathered hands
Scratching and searching.
It has been a long, cold winter,
She needs more firewood.
Her toe peeks through her shoe,
Wary of rocks
And snakes in the grass.
Lifting the pile of wood to her head,
She straightens and smiles.
Pointing ahead
She tells her child
“Look, that is our President’s compound.”
“We voted him to serve us.”
The child cannot see beyond the walls.
Only the movement
Of uncaring cameras.
She does not know this benefactor
Who was voted to serve.
She is shivering and cold.
Her mother pulls her close
As the car splashes mud.
It’s cold blue lights
Flashing into the distance.
She lifts her child onto her hip,
Adjusts the burden on her head.
“They are our politicians.”
“We voted them to serve us.”
Her child’s soft hand
Caresses her furrowed face.
Find out more about Sharon Heaney Stansfield