Last laugh, by Tom Mukasa

Last laugh

walking at a brisk pace,

another wayfarer,

equally purposed,

bumps into me,

we exchange,

our sorrys,

at the same brisk pace,

this time on a less,

traveled street,

below so many storeys,

where homes are,

warm and cozy,

a mis-hapen flower-pot,

relieved of its place,

perhaps by a kick or broom,

almost landed on my head,

what a fright it caused,

then,

where this street,

touches another,

someone,

probably in the night's quiet,

had felt it right,

and left a dump,

to whom it may concern,

at a brisk pace,

my foot,

almost stepped,

right into it,

side-stepping,

only to step,

in vomit and urine,

I recalled,

an African saw,

about the rats and mice,

and how,

they have the last laugh,

for in paring off,

where they nibble,

at a potato,
 yam,
bread,

we, 
humans,

then eat,

what part,

we think,

is not,
defiled,

by them,

for,
 it is their way,

to sit,
 on the food,

they nibble,
 bite at,

as a way,

of holding,

this food,
 in one place,

the rat and mice,

this is what they say:

'humans avoid where we bite,

but eat where our butts touch!'