Patina upon patina: J-town

Scrawled on the city 

and a profuse patina 

on my brain, in my bones 

so many tales
how they came
the old and current earthquakes from the mines
the unsolved bank robbery at Randburg
a story still at large

The cranes and the builders
the anti-builders who crushed dreams – Sofiatown, Doories, Fietas
how the city lost Wopko in the cracks
the unmellow yellow of cop-van raids 

in the wee hours

looking for black bodies, looking to manage their limbs, 

trying to mangle the mind

How so many who came      leave in droves, at year-end
boxed-in on trains; the trommels on bakkies

The buses sagging

A small prison tree – apricot, I believe

where women prisoners sat, ointmenting the sting
and the larger prison; while shadows pooled and pool
in the eye’s hollow
the spray-can worked on the walls
of an old theatre (Kilroy and lord knows which other ghosts 

live here, stalking the change-rooms)

mould getting the upper hand
in the grotty side of town

So many voices, all speaking at once

if you let them

Ah, the sweat-stained dreams

imagining the future

Sometimes you can hear

the strains of a mouth organ, a saxophone, Kippie's flute 

or just the plaintive whistle of a train