After The Fireworks
The crowd vacates the stadium.
Haste hangs in the air like a stench.
Back in the wings: the actors
store their props away,
their make-up still intact.
The president goes back to sleep.
The ministers go back to sleep.
Their cars are waiting.
The guards are in line
to clear the way -
Shuffling, our heels
make contact with our neighbours’
careless garbage.
We are almost through -
The sky looks indescribably
bored, its blank black stare
blotting out what is left of
the smoke trails
of fighter jets’ bravado -
Uniforms
lose their charisma
but there is
the repeat telecast -
Now, it is almost quiet again.
Now, what more is there to do
but sleep?