The red phone Booth—
I see the love of London’s pigeons
Since yester-night was like pollen
Of nexus and, there was fidelity
In Lagos prominence.
Wait, there is a penetration of love
Panoply circumstance at my fringe
And before now, there is a sudden
Coming of today reflection in London’s
Restaurants; but ageless.
I have seen darkness as cloudy in Lagos
While London confusing ideas musters
From Heathrow marble to relief Muritala
In his soldiery gossamer of pain,
To espy a memory from colonial era
And children chant the Harmattan meagre.
Before the varying London dew
Coalesce with comparative warmth
Of Lagos routine. Since love plaits
Girls like a picnic in London’s eye.
From the red phone booth—
The conversation was diverted
In a misspelled voice to a brunette;
Larceny, there is Nigeria, here, I hold on:
As Blake held the exchequer of London
And, I grumbled. With a lachrymose,
Before I see London as a dream
Hello: is this Lagos?
Then, I grasp snow from Lagos
As my phone booth time ends with
My prepaid dream. I hear Lagos’ embroidery
From my loneliness.