when walking his daughter to school, a colony of blood 

coloured ants halts them in their tracks. 

they watch tiny bodies zip through a cracked

pavement like a miniature underground railroad. 

george recounts the african proverb: an ant on its feet can

do more  than an elephant on its back. a police van

drives past them, keeps going.   

after inventing a sustainable solution to aviation travel, 

george lives off the grid; grows his own produce

and tells the best fireside stories.   

in the life where he followed his childhood dream

of becoming a professional basketball player, 

he’s a workaholic, knows the indentations of 

a spalding sphere on his fingertips better than 

the softness of his wife’s brown skin, 

everyone is thrilled that he is living 

to his fullest potential.   

george has obama as a guest on his late night show – floyd’s weekly roundup. 

he interviews him on his latest cook book. they discuss legacies 

of black billionaires and round off the show with 

a live rendition of midnight train to georgia.   

he’s a ballet dancer 

after a standing ovation for his haunting performance

at the lincoln centre, he huddles under a hoodie 

on his way back home.   

he’s the poet laureate of the united states. 

his face fixed on dime coins, 

a national treasure.   

he’s with his mother in jamaica. 

when he calls out to her, she responds, 

holds his hand and smiles, he is seven years old again, 

fear still unfamiliar to the vocabulary 

of his breath.