The Crumpled Dollar

It's winter,
in Rhodesia, in my life
where summer was short
and well rehearsed
to last till that second,
the stage-time,
set by you, your calculus,
and its variables.

You,
ye, only you,
the conductor at my opera;
the director of my dreams;
the dictator;
an autocrat,
who crushed my will,
the murderer I slept with.

I search,
find hope in the smiles
of the hard-worker,
who gives receipts for the
crumpled dollars I pay him.
Oh Zimbabwe,
look... my crumpled heart;
laugh now, please laugh!