‘Hi Sambo!’

Greets me in the urinal,

Gouged deep into the stone –

A triumph of will to rival the great masters.

 

There is much to contemplate

In the moist darkness,

From the outpouring

Of this particular wit.

 

It is not familiarity

with Nineteenth century scholarship

That so intrigues me –

‘Sambo’ indeed –

Or the friendliness of the greeting,

For the artist surely meant to please.

 

No.

Surrounded by pithy scratches,

Bereft of ambiguity,

I finally understand.

 

Urinals have their place,

As do walls, embankments,

Bridges, pavements,

Schoolyards, rail carriages,

And talk-back radiation.

 

No less are these a solace and retreat.

No less are these great galleries.

No less are these sheaves of leaves,

From people driven out

And sent away,

Deep into subterranean places

To think and be.

 

Pamphleteers for our age

Writing their particular diatribe

Against you and me –

The sambo’s, cunts, poofters, and black bastards.