I breath in to find my inner Geezer
ready to speak with a more common vernacular.
I channel my South Londoner
and ensure I have my chipped mugs
ready out on the counter.

I pull the Nescafe and PG Tips forward
from the dusty recesses of the top cupboard
and locate the white sugar, checking that I have
at least five heaped teaspoons’ worth
for the coming encounter.

Later, from behind the net curtains,
I see him sizing up my roof from his van
and I wait for him to walk up the drive to push the doorbell.
Oh, no, THE DOORBELL!

And, too late, what credibility I had pieced together cringes
at the anticipation of the Batman themed doorbell ring,
which until that morning had seemed an appropriate ice breaker.

When it’s spring on the ocean
The wind is clear and warm
And the campers pull in
To wait out summer storms.
And one of them spends time
As he spends his time in Egypt
Making flutes of bamboo
To find his living in it.

He seems to be immune
To states and times and towns.
Whatever is his story
He's glad he's still around.
And when the campers waken
To sniff the fog of dawn
The ocean will still be there
But the flute man will be gone.

Gone to seek his being
Where no man is alone
Where no one rubs his shoulder
And each soul is his own.
You know he's glad he met you
But he is moving on.
He leaves the waves behind him
But the flute man has moved on.