Any day, almost any time
you would find Leroy sitting on the front stoop
or on the veranda observing passers-by
with his transistor clamped to his ear.
Leroy knew everything about his village,
the island, the world, the universe.
He listened intently to the latest news,
gossip, rum talk, the voice of wind whispering.
When his radio was not his companion,
someone sat next to him
with a glass of rum, baring their soul
to the unlettered therapist, un-ordained priest.
His tongue, precious instrument,
earned him the nickname town-crier.
Leroy gave his opinion, dished out juicy gossip
knew who married, divorced, died,
knew who was murdered, and how.
He interpreted cloud patterns,
sniffed the air, felt the direction of wind,
forecast the weather confirmed by
the weatherman on the radio.
Sometimes Leroy danced.
His hefty, plump torso,
covered in hand-me-downs,
swung from side to side to calypso, reggae,
a steel pan tune, the sound of a strumming banjo.
His confinement to the porch by
poor eyesight and illness since childhood
did not break him, stifle his belly laugh or smother his smile.
His large eyes, drawn together, embraced a fat nose.
A large scar branded his dark face.
The mark sat high on his forehead
where the doctors had pushed
his brain back after birth.
He did not remember how many times they picked him
up from the ground where violent fits had thrown him.
He did not remember how they held him against the floor,
placed a spoon between his teeth to save his tongue.
The frequent, unpredictable flailing on the ground
left him bruised, stunned and set in a deep sleep
from which he escaped only when someone knew
it was time to switch his radio on.
Leroy shook like a rag-doll
while sitting on the banister one sunny day,
until he fell, slamming the hard earth.
His bones broken, radio smashed,
He was left as silent as his transistor.
(c) Althea Romeo-Mark
No comments:
Post a Comment