Grasped in furrowed hands
The clothes are wrung waterless
And hung in Transkein hot wind
By arms reaching up to high wires
Plump brown antennae
Over the exuberantly coloured cloth
That wraps her
The berg wind carries her Xhosa song
Gathering the smells of lawn and linen
To the young white boy sitting on the steps
Behind the prefabricated house
That pretends it’s in suburbia
Or anywhere but Umtata
She hangs his Superman t-shirt
While he crashes plastic trucks
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