Dancing with Africans

I lay in this box, with its top
Its sides, bottom, and its lock,

Lathered lacquer fresh from the shop

Stiff as board, hard as a rock

Creased, folded white like a napkin

A seed pod for the stone crop.

In suits with boots and pocket clocks

They hoist me towards my farm plot,

Desert dust devils up their socks

As they kick, stop, lock-n-pop.

I am Dancing with Africans

In this box, with its top, waiting for the beat drop.