there’s a bright patch of green
on the Table’s lap
but I cannot see the sun
from where I sit
only the sun’s protruding rays
between the mountain peak
and the shoulder peak
on my balcony patiently watching
for the flying Xhosa girl
who lives down the road
to pass by, look my way, smile,
and wave a hand…
maybe this time I might convince her
to slow down a bit, and tell me a name…