In Monrovia

the hundred aliases of evil

know poverty’s single house address,

familiar with all her drab,

pointless days spent in mud

and frustration, robbing Peter

to pay Paul. The taxis carry

the message of God to every door

and gallons of rain wash

the rusts of love from the naked

bodies of the dead and the dying.

The pungence of death’s naked stare

on the floor of a hut bearing

her breasts to an old man there

waiting for Judgement to come.

The last view I saw as he stumbled

toward the back gate, broken

and breaking will haunt

the waterways of our prison no more.

All those hours spent waiting

for the guard to pass by, to pass

us our crusts and slop

sink into the sewers

on the tales of snakes.