The Juice Poem by Teddy Wirunda

I see him enter the restaurant,
I see him take a sit,
He asks for the menu,
He stretches and yawns.

I see him peeping through,
I see the list.
He chooses the juice
And salivates foolishly.

I see it being brought,
He washes his hands in the air
and swallows some saliva,
It is put on the table
Whose colour it carmoflages
A perfect mix.

A straw is brought
but he refuses.
I see him knod and walk away
But he sits and prepares
For a serious drink

He sighs appreciatively,
He stretches his hands and
Reaches for the glass
I see him take a sip.

I see the cortoted face,
The furious look
The hot anger,
I feel it too.
I see him stand up.

He hits the glass away
And pants angrily,
To the surprise of many
He spits on the broken glass
Then asks for another.

I see the waiter,
Dressed normaly
But not behaving normally.

I see him being thrown out
By three strong men.
Out of the compound
And with a serious beating,
He is chased away
Like a foolish dog,
Never, to return.