Tiswas just done, heard screaming outside,
From the box to the window we ran.
A frizzy black woman is clutching
Her wayward hair tight.
Crouched in a ball on the pavement,
I barely recognized her knickers and bra,
Matching color of brilliant white
Keats Road covered by snow.
Frank strides by with gloves and hat,
Squeamish bare feet he failed to see.
His brown boots crunch into the distance,
Real cold. Real cold.
Beside a Brandy bottle still screaming.
I turned to my brother, go wake mother,
Ackee and Saltfish for breakfast is late.
He said he had tried. Both sisters too –
But there was no presence in her room.
There was no presence in her room.
There was no presence.
There was ——– no.