Ode to the Boy

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By Morategi Kgomokhumo

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We come in different shapes.

Rarely clean

But always avoiding a bath.

The boy,

Father-to-be,

He who will grow

To herd the cattle

And haul the crushing bags of maize.

Mule-to-be,

But for now he is a young colt.

Unyoked and unbothered.

He gallops across puddles the size of pans,

Mud wrapped around

Toes that know nothing of long arduous journeys.

He runs

Across open, flame-vulnerable grass fields.

Blissfully unaware of creeping responsibility.

A mustang to be broken in

With rope in hand

By the cowboy

That is life.