Sad Spectacles

 

Sad Spectacles

 

Ideally we avoid melancholies in D Minor key,

but here's a couple anyway from overseas:

that ponder washing the state from estate.

The jury’s out - deliberating. At any rate,

my most recent spectacles were cracked,

I could not clearly see and that's a sad fact -

still, some history - bought on Al Difaaf Street,

Al Sadd, beat up stone on pounded concrete

translating to The Dam, and you know I will be,

because these glasses split from side to side

and your curse is come upon me, she cried.

Shelter from precipitations of shapeless form

arcing cross sky; iPhones hum droning songs,

about repellants; useless no-mark insecticides

that any Doha corner shop has on shelves

but won't dispatch metalled insects to hell.

So, wretched ankle biters have made meal,

and it is with a bloated weariness you feel

like you should fist-shake ineffectuals above,

despairing of the olive, despondent of dove,

shrug and say, well, at 64,  it could be worse.

So, cast a sly mind back to some other sad sods,

another song, you know, that dream you flogged

for many wasted years – then, there she was.

You'd double take, but it might draw attention

and make any lingering animosity strengthen.

I rubbed those glasses in shocked surprise

and risked shards of glass to the eyes

because, more accurately, both of them there,

but, there’s nothing in this game for a pair,

is there, Bruce? Two women; a married couple,

if that's not pejorative - you don't chuckle

and I could feel four burning eyes at my back

like cutters, like baseball bats; I’m under attack,

in need one of those jerkins for repulsing flack

instead of my blue school 2026 senior jacket.

Emblazoned with ‘Bassman’. I’m proud of that,

I earned it like gangbusters, worked hard at it,

it’s who I am now - so what, then, to make of you?

Turn around, bright eyes, you’re in a curry queue,

and you scutter past, eyes down, two on two

to some sad table; a dark corner. I heard news –

about alcohol, fisticuffs, driving bans, disputes

neighbour on neighbour, hotly debated truths  

and cold tempers. You can’t, won’t shake hands,

bear no malice, sing rapprochement across lands

and I’d expect any hatchet buried in my spine.

Oh, this is a fine time to change your mind,

but here’s two sad spectacles that make us blind.