Poetry | Ink Sweat and Tears

Afolabi Ezra

The Day Nothing Happened

It was a quiet day—
no bad news,
no sudden loss,
no reason to hold my breath.

I didn’t notice it at first,
how rare that is.

The sky stayed where it was,
the ground didn’t give way,
my phone remained silent
in the best possible way.

I drank water
without thinking about survival.
I laughed
and didn’t have to explain why.

It felt almost suspicious—
like peace was something borrowed,
something that might be taken back
if I looked at it too closely.

So I didn’t.

I let the day pass through me
unchallenged,
unquestioned—

and only later realized
it had been a gift
I almost ignored.

Afolabi Ezra

An algorithm guides me through the keys
Each stanza nested in a formal loop

Hey kid, this won’t mean that much to you yet,
but I didn’t taste my first proper curry
till at least twenty-one . . .

Aimless between
Dropping out
Of art school
And absolutely no
Friggin’ money . . .

it’s a special kind of empty
the footed earth, saluting the sky

It beckons from between plasters and hand cream,
the box bright-white, the lettering green.

Travel West. Submerge yourself
in the M4’s homeward drift.

slid in bass-drop dams up
pierced ears, furred
with youth, his vest drinks sweat,

lunchtime, in the maths department
arranging pencils by colour
two friends, carefully sorting
into clear plastic tubs

Unexpected as burned stone,
what am I supposed
to do with this memory?