An Excuse

This was written in response to a friend who accused me of never
being in touch and I didn't know how to mention how busy I am with work

Look at the distant signpost, or listen, if you will, at the hoarse distant voice
They speak of a fool, a toiler, grunting under a searing sun.
Only silence soothes him, a flighty relief from strife, and
bombasts of excuses spun to pass the torch of blame

It’s Lagos, dear. Landlady of hustles and thatched hopes. New York without lustre.
She robs. She robes. I now straddle on bare foot and borrowed breath
Here, money-slow-to-enter, and players lay siege for callous gambits
And no one asks why the bar beaches to brink as men sweat to death…

Like a fly caught in a web of mess but playing Lazarus for a meagre escape
Welcome-to-Lagos, The World’s Third Mainland Street of crap and crass
A maze of everything insane. Man’s flight in regression.

But.

Only time will tell how far I go with my hustle (with or without the cheque)
But you must know I miss you too (even as distance keeps you from my neck)