BY THOMAS MHANDO
It started with one harmless shirt,
Not really clean and not really dirty,
A garment trapped in moral hurt.
Some trousers joined it after tea,
Then socks arrived from mystery,
And soon the chair became a dynasty.
I promised, “Tomorrow, I will clear,”
Tomorrow came and disappeared,
While clothing multiplied without fear.
The chair became a wardrobe throne,
A kingdom I could call my own,
With every garment left alone.
Now nobody sits there anymore,
It has become a laundry store—
A chair that never knew what chairs were for.
thomas.mhando@gmail.com
