Piqued

 

Piqued

 

The evening had peaked -

walking home, along Al Wakra Street

singing a nothing comedy

to two Filipinas:

‘I’m a Lonely Shepherd’

nonsense like that

and Lear would’ve patted you on the back,

while you allowed

yourself to feel proud,

mashallah –

And prior to this, Sheryl had blown a kiss:

called you Pogi

while stray cats attacked your lap

you’re paw-patted for stray chicken,

fresh from skewered kebabs

delivered straight to the plate -

far too much for three.

You remember pushing the tortoiseshell

off your knee

as you ascended steps to the bar,

intent on two cold beers –

felt you’d earned it, paid for the rooms

too full of food

having left a plateful or more.

But the barman? Shows you the door,

for reasons of law -

you hiss, ‘I will stay here NO more!’.

grit your teeth for effect,

flounce offstage.

Stripped for bed

you caught a glimpse of yourself,

naked, in the mirror’s frame –

felt ashamed.