Hustler

Eyes red like there’s a bonfire from hell,

Not even a blink would consume the flames in his eyes,

His mouth bulges on one side,

Like he has a rugby ball in it,

He keeps on talking while chewing,

All green in there like he is padded with grass,

His shirt is half buttoned,

One could count his ribs,

Maybe a high school kid would learn better bone structure here,

His waist had a black paper bag,

This carried the greens he was chewing,

From his breath you wouldn’t need an Alco-blow,

Already my nose was numb,

His back pocket had this clear liquor,

On taking a sip his face would show a lot of pain,

You could tell it was bitter,

As the matatu is taking off,

The conductor parts away with a coin,

He is back to calling on commuters to fill another matatu,

And another poet to write about him,

He is an epitome of a hustler.