It is twelve

And the day is at crossroads;

Evening wrestles night

For the rights of time


It is twelve

And it is a new day

This day begins its day yawning

A hundred loads

Loom on its discourteous sun

Its face, dyed with uncertainty

Deep rooted in fantasies

And doctored memories


It is 12:00am, Good morning!

It is 12:00am, Good morning!

It is twelve,

Bath-supplications compete at crossroads

It is twelve

And it could birth anything;

They were twelve,

Clustered at their master’s feet

At the sound of jiggling coins

One thought of Wall Street

And boarded the next train

Does it matter?

If it were a day or people?

It was twelve in June…

They faulted the people’s wish

And dug a thousand graves



‘Gbenga Adeoba is a lover of words. His poems have appeared in Sankofa LitMag, Bukrepublik and elsewhere.




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