Broccoli Rabe, Broccoli Rasta

Ron Singer

…sang the radio in Accra,

as we bumped along from where to where.

“What’s that?” I asked the driver.

“It sounds like reggae, but …”

Ivoirien reggae.”

“Ohhh, that’s why …  ah ha.”


On the day I broke my foot,

lost an eye, and didn’t say

“Good morning” to my wife,

Leo, three, grinned at me.

“Grandpa,” he said.

“What is it, my dear?”

“Broccoli Rabe, Broccoli Rasta.”

Other poems about Ghana on Poetry Atlas.

This poem previously appeared in Grey Sparrow, 2012; River Poets Journal (postcard poems), 2014

Main Location:

Accra, Ghana

Street scene in downtown Accra, Ghana