Between the Horns of the Day

The future holds greatness.

You don’t know what work is
until you’ve driven delivery vans through London,
until you’ve hauled car parts
to mechanics flammable with oil and nicotine
carried five-gallon bottled water
up six flights of stairs
to cubicle kingdoms
single-handedly wrestled lawnmowers
to the overgrown gardens of imprisoned housewives.

For me, it never mattered
it was music on the radio
a joint to burn the hours
the illusion of freedom behind the wheel
on my own terms, a way to pay rent
nothing more
my place here was ephemeral.
but for the oversized, cretinous working men I met
white, brash, certain
it was their life
and they made it their business
to school this twenty-one-year-old.

“This country’s gone to the dogs,”
they’d all say
“First West Africans
then the Polish
now Muslims
stealing our lives
our jobs
our daughters.”

They wanted me to believe
their bitterness could be passed on
like the rusting tools
chinking in the Transit van

One man in Peckham, sixty years old
his nose a clenched fist of bone and warts
had a deep kindness in some hidden part
but was twisted
in ways I could not name.

I learned not to argue
I learned to listen

“Son,” he said
“I’m married to a Nigerian now.”
and he told me her name
Nkiruka—the future holds greatness.
his voice broke softly on those words
he’d left a British wife
dour and cold
said Nigerians love fully,
said she keeps him in his place,
said once you go black
you never go back
and then belly laughed
dug browning fingers deep into his nose
and wiped the treasures on his overalls
we hit a sleeping policeman
the van bucked and
wisteria walls slid past in rearview

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