Bubble

 

Bubble

 

She pushes 2 strips of Nicorette

across the counter, didn’t forget

how you always toss packaging;

refuse the plastic. You examine

dark eyes, banded by face mask

and hijab, they’re hot; it lasts -

her burning brand drawing fire

that rises from straw - you mount

the escalator and tamp it out.

Sit, take coffee, glance around

thinking about how you found

a place here. Yesterday, in bed,

giving her lunch, resting heads

afterwards, hearing her shrieks

as Ginebra, letting points leak,

missing baskets, lack control,

could not put balls in the hole.

Reminiscing how you’d cupped

flesh and all that sifted air sucked

through teeth, hoops blown soft

provoke froth, send bubbles aloft,

that live in gilded precious bursts,

can for an instant satisfy thirsts,

then fall in liquids on the earth.

With that conceit; kill your phone -

and long for being left alone.

 

 

Al Sadd

 

Al Sadd

 

You took a selfie sitting on the steps

of ‘Brands For Less’ -

there are two,

one at the other end, abutting the Metro,

where an unwary motorist

is honoured with medals for illegal parking –

Alex messaged: ‘Where’s that?’

You typed ‘Al Sadd’ while a stray cat,

tortoiseshell, and therefore female,

made a play for your lap;

gave your thigh a friendly pat.

The cars are a nuisance,

backing into careless pedestrians,

blasting hot air at dripping legs,

as cloistered commuters point at fools,

sipping karak in the cool.

Change direction at random

to avoid pits in the pavement,

exposed bricks, quick drying cement

that can outstrip the arcing sun,

and in grey, clogging rivers run,

form cooled outcrops that crest

levelled hardscaped flagstones.

You generally stride out solo,

pass familiar landmarks

– you’ve known them years –

Chtoura, Marmara, La Paz,

with Filipinas who will cast and stab

at any chance to engage and hook.

Catch eyes with private looks

of promised pleasures, straighten backs,

pushing upwards, in pairs or threes

lipping rumours to capture and tease

while disregarding feckless husbands

left in Mindanao far behind.

Still sat down, Let’s tackle her message

incuriously, received spuriously,

you’d best guess -

from Kenya, Nigeria, somewhere

anywhere, words that want care

and come with attachments,

something harmful, somewhat libel,

and she’s slung her hook

5 years ago. You look.

‘We should catch up, keep in touch.’

You wonder why

it stirs nothing much.

Dear Old Friend

 

Dear Old Friend

 

The only time I sniggered

watching ‘Steptoe and Son Ride Again’

was during the funeral scene –

specifically, Yootha Joyce’s mocked up pain

while crooning: ‘Dear old friend,’

on top of a clapped-out horse and cart.

Good acting, that.

You would've disapproved, I know,

cited the latest Tarantino

but you never saw ‘Hateful 8’

or ‘Once Upon a Time in Hollywood’.

I like the latter and the way History

was bent out of shape and twisted

to bequeath a happy ending.

But, I left it all far behind – still amazed

you never put the black on Brexit 

or faced plague –

but I think of you most days,

wonder if you'd have beaten pans with sticks

like the rest of them

while watching YouTube, streaming The Beatles,

in a distant world so removed

from anything two of us knew

in our lifetimes -

Sunday driving, not arriving, on our way,

looking back at us from far overseas

while she comes to me

all bass runs and Shangri La

in falling towels dripping showers

oriental and perfumed flowers.

My dear old friend,

it goes without saying

there was no comedy at yours

when they closed those committal doors,

it was curtains -

I wondered how life could continue.

But now, with different songs to sing

she’s crossed her fingers, wondering

what our next 5 years will bring.

Conflicted

 

Conflicted

 

That hot sauce, I ordered with my pizza

last night will out, they say,

sauce will have sauce

and leads to thoughts of taste:

why, 20 years ago, enough to floor a horse

if my mouth were equine by nature.

I idly wonder, while clutching my belly

and beating a path to the bathroom,

machetes cleaving my guts in two,

if the chef was putting the laugh

on me – but, no, that surely cannot be

the person dipping his bread was me.

And some Uber driver on the way

was extolling the virtues of Sri Lankan holiday

because the voters there had spoken,

got rid of the wankers running the place,

replaced them with more grinning faces

no doubt. Armando switched tennis on –

we're talking Swan Lake and the Russian

ballet from Moscow –  that had performed

this time last week, I was torn,

conflicted, as the art ripped tears

that quickly dried; 'It's all one, they're just here.’

this side's that side's compromise.

Overseas, there's midterms;

the media speaks of heel face turns -

but I'm wondering what it is that blunts taste,

if age creates a tungsten tongue

that was not there when we were young,

while later on, their bellies burn.

Implacable, the old, old foes

each the other's weakness knows,

and pay no attention, tweet intention:

Half of us sue for peace

while the other half hunger for release -

and I wonder if any of them look up

and spot a flock of seagulls,

because they ran, they ran so far away

to drop their bombs between the minarets

down the casbah way.