Standoff

 Standoff

 

Anyone can be a teacher,

she loudly proclaimed, o'er land and sea.

That settled it with a jot of sneer,

dashed Tabasco smear for an upper lip, dear,

and he’s reflected in a shattered mirror

as fragments of Arabia.

 

Backing up a little here -

that morning he’s back

from running charitable chores,

behind the wheel, uninsured,

pulls up the handbrake, a pause,

scowls paper-darts running 100 metre sprints,

eyes narrow-gauged, blink –

this tradesman’s van, fronts him in bluff

and Mexican stand off.

 

I recognized it instantly.

putting weight on the adverb –

some bearded cretin

come to measure up your new kitchen.

 

Now, nether vehicle is into giving an inch,

the canary that cavorts with the finch

and the barkeep slides another drink

down the formica top,

that’s impersonating Cornish rock.

 

Mugs framed in thumb-smear windshields,

neither of these is going to yield,

that face opposing his, taut as wire

in burning bush of the most implacable fire,

raises his hands to signal exasperation,

whilst grim perspiration,

seeps and pours in icicle drops of fixation.

 

And then – Mr Van - tired of the rally,

longest of the match yet, sagged nonverbally

hit a forehand into the net,

swerved past, disappeared from view,

left the parking spaces, withdrew,

medical timeout, it seems - but he’ll best you yet,

this is only the second set.

 

They meet upon the stairs,

a man who sold the world, a man who taught -

syllables in both throats catch pharyngitis,

a dose of flu or coronavirus,

and if octobass could talk it would sound like this.

 

Still, he’s measured up, she’s made a choice,

gives years of hesitation a voice,

agrees to a consultation, his place

at three and will you come with me?

His negative response - predictable as ever,

Doctor - because he never

takes any interest in important decisions,

treats kitchen fitters with derision

and, after all, anybody can be a teacher.

 

He might have taught her

the history of Arabia,

epilogues of a mirror’s shattered shards

bringing it all back home

to deserts sands, where life inspired

men to master their own fate,

and the fault lies not in the stars.

 

Three hours later, that student returns,

red raw with burning

steaming through the portal like crushed glass

up the neck with appliances,

acute angles, obtuse domestic sciences

unpacking learning from her phone,

to sit in dream kitchens alone.