that keeps the villain alive
that thing that skulks like a frog under a rock
something of the stately old white man
baas op sy plaas
sitting in his rocking chair
he messages his culpability into the oxen shit veranda
that was polished dusky red
by the blood of the old cleaning woman
can you see him stuff his pipe?
with the leathery skin of the old field worker
preening in his white shirt bleached
with the crushed bones of the washer woman
indignant
he denies it all
as he puffs and blows out their last breaths
"I'm not to blame"
he snaps
"it's all over now"
he gesticulates
"besides"
he smiles
"weren't those days grand?"
