I, Vincent.

A Poem by Gamaliel Pam

A poem about countless, nameless gems we ignore daily. Bright futures dulled by our selfishness.

I, Vincent,
I’m that child of cloudy origins,
You see me daily,
Yes! The lad with desert skin,
Messenger of harmattan.
You’re surprised I have a name.

I exist,
But my anonymity eclipses me,
I exist,
Yet your foot-mat gets more review.
You stepped on my toe,
Just yesterday,
Without apologies,
I tried to say I forgive you,
But you were too busy with your cellular.

Like a river,
My mouth watered today,
It watered as I watched you complain about
your meal,
”It has no salt” you said.
Hmm! Who cares for salt?
I have no taste buds,
I have only hunger.

Toss me those clothes,
Ok! Toss those rags,
They’re still potent,
These bits I wear leave me more nude than if
I was naked,
Let me those rags to hoard against this cold.
”What cold?” you ask,
The cold that comes with night,
Hand-in-hand like lovers.
The night is my bed and blanket,
Mosquitoes buzz my lullaby,
Only the Stars tell me who I am.

I envy what you lament about,
What luxury your waste is to me,
I, child of night,
I, alien to myself,
I, Vincent.