Punchline
Laying on a
conspiratorial finger flex
to the
audience, like a promise of sex,
perhaps - well
you might think that,
not me, closer
a punch to the throat
might be a nearer mark or on the nose -
wait,
wait, there’s more,
he’d suggest
with a wink, but,
in truth, there was less.
Don’t know
what I mean? Here’s one.
Same old song
with a different meaning
since you’ve
been gone, I’m grieving
or dreaming, when
I saw you, in line.
He’s spotted
the flag on my left sleeve,
did you see?
Of course, I felt your eyes,
removing the
jacket, unbuttoning flies
and your
mouth was there, has been,
but he
runneth over in his need to spill,
Is that
Qatar? he gushes, all
thrilled
and pointing
at my emblazoned arm,
done up in
maroon and white flash,
his words a
cascade of hot splash
as we’re
waiting in the New Year’s Eve
line for
festive madras, masala, sag aloo,
well, what can
you do? I spotted you,
spotting me,
spotting you, spotting me,
thinking what
about Breakfast at Tiffanies?
Well, that’s
something we got. And curry -
goes without
saying. Meanwhile, he’s below,
head down under, says he built the Metro.
I use it all
the time, wherever I go, you know,
it’s great! I
admit, but I'm nothing jealous.
How long? Ten
years, I reply, words die.
Neither of us
brave enough to call out,
neither of us
bold enough to shout,
just one of
those grim, tense moments -
how strange
it is, that which you once loved,
slipped from
your hand, a lost glove
leaving you
with something no longer there.
Of course,
she glares, your better half,
like Jimmy
Cricket. Well, I didn’t laugh
at those dead
eyes, that Winter grip,
or a scornful
setting of her cemented lip.
The queue
moves on and you both slip
past - they
sit you at a dark deep table,
bring menus
and I’m surreptitious, looking,
waiting for
my take-away still cooking:
Nobody
puts Angel in a corner!
I might've
cried, had imagination not fled
these long
years gone and left instead
items ground pepper grey, worn down, drab,
faded flowers
in cracked vases breaking bad.
Spreader of
stale jokes, late bottom drawer,
so badly
telegraphed, reception’s a chore
and I’d show
those old punchlines the door:
here, come here,
quick, enough, no
more.
