Shorty

 

Shorty

 

In relation to nothing, really—

just their staycation,

thirteen, fourteen miles down the coast,

south of Doha, boasting

a curved beach,

restaurants alongside.

 

He eats giant kuboos

like fried sun-hats—

panamá, sombrero, salakot, sapatos—

the setting sun thaws frost

from alcohol-free beers, Pepsi Zero,

freeing the radicals.

 

She pinches him, scolds him;

he grins a sheepish thing

full of additives, flavourings,

but a detox courses through the veins

of lives spent smelting chain—

alloy-hardened battle armor,

leather straps across the shoulder,

like Lancelot, like Gladiator,

running wheat through fingertips.

 

She cuts the bands—

it slips.

 

Lying flat, singing hymnals by the pool,

curled sunbed, balled and minuscule,

he flicks water after a hundred lengths

to stir some movement on the bench

and whistles:

 

Oi—Shorty!

 

Pulling together a little indignant frame

Stop, Fatty, she proclaims.

then grins : both left contemplating

in silence much the same.