It’s Thursday, 06:15 You wake up to the alarm knowing you will never win an Olympic medal publish a novel that would win the Man Booker, finish your degree or even pay the last R150 you owe Woolworths. Your first grandchild will die before you and each of those candles you lit in the cave of the chapel might have been for your lost dreams. But those little flames did not save you from the canker fire in your gut and liver that burned lost dreams and life in slower motion than every workday Thursday.
This is the second in a set of ‘difficult’ poems.
Woolworths is a South African department store akin to the UK’s Marks and Spencer (rather than the now defunct UK Woolworths).