the window washer

a lazy clutch muzzles the engine
and i slow at the traffic light.

in the afternoon sun
a dusty silhouette splits into
paper boy and window washer
and i say no thanks with a wink and a smile to both.
the soap and rag are hard of hearing
but i am too tired
to start a fight
and the windscreen could do with a wash
(so could the rest of the car).
the man is singing
in a local language,
it's a children's song, i think,
at least judging by the rhythm.
i fumble for change
in the recesses of my car,
among receipts and flyers
i find a silver coin.

i look up and see
the sunset ahead of me,
through the clear glass
lies joburg in bright honey
like a medal on a heaving chest.
i still hear the singing
of the man through my dirty side window
which i drop

to see a child maimed by fire
drawn across the body of a man,
whipped and licked
by hot hungry tongues
until he cannot walk
without shuffle or song.

mute, i place the coin in his hand,

'my friend,' he smiles, 'today, you are my best friend.'