The man held an umbrella over his head,

like he held darkness from crashing into light.

A sartorial suit sold in Soho,

an Obama shirt, a Trump rain jacket,

Che Guevara’s moustache,

Fidel Castro’s pipe, Abacha’s sunglasses,

Kim Jong-un’s shoes and Clinton’s smile.

The man walked like Armstrong on Mars,

as though all of the ground was wool.

How the clouds had descended on earth,

made the floor of every garden fluffy,

chastened the rough places,

patched up the crooked landscape,

that he who was the next thing to an angel,

would go with no broken bones,

or blistered toes, or bloody eyes.

His blessed hands had pulled down the lift;

his tender, socked feet matched on a white terrace,

smeared it with the blood of the nine-year-old.

He married her with full rites and rights.

But it was his hands that touched off this inferno,

by which he fondled two breasts in passing,

though his innocence glowed from his collar,

shouting, it’s better to die of passion than of boredom.

He was a devout believer;

prayed seven times a day,

even as he walked on the tapestry of the sky,

the red carpet which Heaven laid out,

for those who would ascend at the rapture.

Watch the umbrella! Watch the umbrella!

with a nipple like a virgin’s.

Who would blame him for touching it?

It’s like caressing the pages of his holy book.

And as he went home that rainy day,

the night was too virile a consolation,

from a day woven with the linen of fear,

when he would tear off these garments,

lay beside the limp body of his wife,

and closed his blessed eyes and mouth.

Jonathan Chibuike Ukah