
LAST LAP
The heat
The heat of the sun
Of the people,
Boiling in their blood,
Red hot and bubbling, over-
flowing with sensuality
wafting on the wind
Like the smell of stale oil from the vendors’ stall.
And the people gyrate and reverberate,
Stoking the heat.
And she, Cynthy, twisting and thrusting her hips,
Like Sparrow say, ‘ball-bearings in she waist’.
And he, Glen, pelvis erect,
getting tighter and tighter
from the heat she giving off,
was a part of the rhythm,
part of the heat.
The heat.
And when it get too much,
Cynthy spin round
to kiss…
But was her sister she see,
Standing,
Still as death,
Watching.
‘Cee!’
Cynthy scream.
But he
Ridiculous, slow man,
Kiss her deep and sweet
Till she pull way and scream again.
‘Cee!’
But the face was lost
among the so many faces,
grinning and spinning and perspiring
from the heat.
The heat.
And he, Glen, twist round to see,
but was too late.
Cee was gone,
And the fete was done for Cynthy,
Sweat rolling down her face
Heart thumping, music throbbing.
A reckoning to pay.