I hear the beating
of summer drums
as their rhythm clogs the air.

I dream of tribal
towns where straw-thatched huts
sprawl throughout the lands
lifted high on four stilts
when the water floods from the sea.

Little girls play on the
dirt with sacking dolls
made from corn husks.
They learn and train
from their mothers
as their lands turn from
grey to green.

Little boys fight
and bite, kick,and scream
their warrior’s cry.
Wooden shields
of tribal symbols
painted streaks of flying birds.

Papa comes home
from the hunt, a dead monkey
in his hands.
Mama returns with
roots, berries, and grubs
to boil, bake and
hang to dry.

The sun, an orb of orange
light fills our huts
for our sight,
as we eat, drink,
talk and scratch our body lice
away.

Our days end
in tribal grace.
The garbage men
in trucks of grey
drive and pick up
our neighbor’s offal.
The beating drums boom
out of control, again.