He carries hope,
I mean, other than Hope, his wife,
Hope that someday, his marriage illegal,
He was finally going to exchange her for goats.
He carries Hope,
The wife,
In his heart.
Maybe someday he will build her a mansion or two,
Each with a kitchen inside.
He buries Hope,
Deep down somewhere,
Which hope you ask?
The other one.
Tired of carrying both,
One had to give.
One buried.
He stares at Hope,
Her cracked lips a sight for sore eyes,
And prays she was blind,
To his empty pockets,
The small taps on the roof,
The rumbling stomachs enough to warrant relief.
Hope, his Hope, would hope on him.
Shera Muthoni
