I want to ride a bike by the beaches of Keakwa
with you.
Speeding along the cloudy horizon,
passing a Japanese artillery wreck,
feeling the wind in my face,
its April, I said
what the heck, you said
you got a flat tire,
so we stop,
abruptly,
like any other event here.
Lets just run, you said
Feeling the sand in my foot,
And seeing the smiley faces
Of the Kamoro children
We run,
up into the old small airstrip
where Freeport
used to unload their equipment,
back in the late 1960s,
this place, abandoned now
its spirits taken away
to the city,
where we live,
and write this poem.
Ogowal Onny 