My Perfect Plane

i.
I walk right into his experiment
after pouring my first beverage.
Some young bright patterned tie
rushes across to form a queue.
I rest the cup on the counter-top.
He smiles and says “take for both”
I outwardly thank his strangeness
but I baulk inwardly, weary from
the effort of accepting without
paying the price he seeks. The coffee
is bitter with gall; barely drinkable
even in my favourite window
seat overlooking the plaza.

I sit, moulded in plastic, mulling
the miserable taste of experiment.
Loud nonsense assaults me.
“Halo 3 and a Xbox is it.
Dis’ it and you dis’ me. Pisses
on your shitty Jap crap”.
“Fuck you. MS is so corporate
PS3 is totally street, dude”.
Angry chair scraping makes
me slap them both with a bellow.
Authority of voice an inheritance;
I throw them out without moving.
Idiots leave an echoing silence.

ii.
Walking home the pavement is
almost mine alone; just a young
socialite rushing in foot long strides
towards me, her tan calf skin,
calf length boots clapping at her
size-zero body. She flashes a smile
that stuns me from her path. Guttered,
I twist my ankle and stumble causing
her handbag to yap. With a flick
of her head, a brunette lustre sweeps
me, hobbling, over to the small park
to share its single wooden bench
among today’s rhododendron blooms.

Sitting, smiling, a tired mother weeps.
I sit back to rest in the sounds of
small birds and swaying shade.
“My boy used to bring me here
each market day, afore the war”
Then sensing this wasn’t enough
“Loved the purple of it, he did”
The birds and I contemplate this
quietly. A dry bearing in her distant
cog so our place in the machine
stays lightly oiled. Embarrassed
tweets cover a faked squeak in my
step, as I continue homewards.

iii.
I lie sallow under the soaking
darkness of an extinguished light,
my body practises for an open casket,
the echo of a gentle breaths wash
over me. Each one lapping away
imprints of the days wrinkles.
“Sleep well me love” a roaring
tsunami smooths any furrows.
I am not tricked by tokens or idol
worship, taken by outer beauty,
or pulled back to that long past.
I have fortune, for with my love
I fell upon the perfect plane.

Filed under Poetry |