When people come at us with fists
of insecurity and unbridled anger
our basic instinct is to meet them halfway
with similar unrestrained emotions.

But when we take the high road,
the one that is not easily walked upon,
the one that requires maturity
and several ounces of self control,

we find that it is possible to build
a titanium cage inside our chest
within which our fragile emotions
could be cocooned,
if only for brief periods of time,
away from the inevitable bruises
that form part of the mosaic of life.

I've always said that
I'll give you anything you want.
What I wouldn't say is I'll climb
a mountain for you,
or catch a grenade for you
because that has been overdone
and frankly, nobody really does that.

What I can do, what I promise to do is:
when your bones are down with the flu
and your head feels weighted with dumb-bells,
I'll warm up my mom's secret chicken broth,
bring it up to you on that thin brown plastic tray
and patiently feed you until the sparkle
in your eyes return.

When you're cold and shivering
I'll take off my shirt and pants
and shoes and socks
and slide beside you on the bed
and let my body heat diffuse through
all the tiny pores of my skin to yours.
I'll share with you until my body thermometer
reads minus five degrees Celsius.

And when you meet moments of laughter,
of joy or great excitement,
I promise I'll hop onto a three legged stool
and do my crazy funny dance with you.
But I can't say all of these things in the split
of a second, when I'm lost your eyes.
That's why I sum it all up and say
I love you.

You wait on the smooth and shiny floor
of the arrival area with mixed feelings,
you're a groom expecting his bride
to be led to him slowly and unscathed
on the sliding plastic pieces of carousel.

You think about how relieved you are
for making it out of the plane,
how you managed to mumble
an indistinct farewell to
the pretty flight attendants
that filled your in-flight fantasies.

Then you also think about
the last time you came through this airport
and your luggage did not arrive;
how the uncountable footsteps
and phone calls yielded nothing.
That's when little beads of sweat
begin to flock on your brow.

The first few luggage are discharged
through the small opening in the wall,
arriving with subdued fanfare on the carousel.
An all black Samsonite cruises by,
followed closely by a blue Nike sports bag
that puffs out its chest as if in a military parade.

Then a green and white plaid bag drifts by
and you wonder if the owner is from Ghana
or perhaps a proud Nigerian.
The plastic draped Travelpro catches your eye,
half torn to shreds - a good reminder
of the hazards of cargo handling.

Four minutes go by
and you've become a detective
swiftly and skilfully scanning the bags
as they drive by in their solemn procession.
Then you spot that red and black duffel bag
wearing your Mum's purple ribbon

and your eyes instantly light up.
Your cheeks push up in delight
and your lips become glued
in a perpetual clown smile.

As it moves close and you pick it up,
you notice the early rays of light
that have begun to filter in
through the concrete slits in the wall.
Suddenly you realize:
what a great day it is!

Sometimes it feels like
one of those pleasurable dreams
that get interrupted at the best part
or some kind of sweet spell
from which I never want to escape.

But when she wraps her legs around mine
and snuggles her head
into the little corner of my neck,
I know she's real.

At night when I'm with her,
all alone watching the darkness
slowly absorb the mist of our love making,
I like to pretend we're the only ones in the world
and everyone else, everything else
is asleep, maybe not even breathing,
and we´re the 21st century revisions
of Adam and Eve.

During the day, when we lock hands
and go to explore a serene island
or lie by the quiet lake and revel
in the relaxing notes of the little birds,
I would like to seize time
by its tightly-bound rusty collar
and make it creep and crawl
in order to have enough time
to savour these moments.

As I write this poem, the fourth
she has inspired me to do,
I imagine her seductively posed on a stool,
gently strumming the strings of her lyre
in a court where I am the king
or Shakespeare himself

watching and listening with my
swan-feather writing apparatus in hand,
dipping it in the ink of her inspiration,
then firmly, comfortable, transcribing words
from my heart onto a paper screen,
one virtual key after another.

You know how you see couples walking
along quiet cobbled streets
or along the silent flowing river
or under the yellow hue of street lights,
hands intertwined as if performing a mating dance,
while looking into each others' eyes
as if decoding the subtle message
being transmitted from their partner's soul.

Have you noticed how their bodies seem
totally in harmony with each other
and how deep eye-squinting smiles
take almost forever to fade
like the colour out of the red shirt in the sun -
slowly and almost unnoticed.

In the semi darkness that envelopes them,
their eyes are usually locked in a happy embrace
and the dark circles in their eyes gets wider.
Every now and again, there's a tender touch
that breaks the flow of whispered words
and punctuates muffled blissful laughs.

In such moments when I see these couples
I search the corners of my spleen
for a drop of a similar memory
and imagine how it would feel
to hold hands with someone
along quiet cobbled streets
or along the silent flowing river
or under the yellow hue of street lights.

I have never been in this situation before
trying to decide which of the two girls to go after
I am a lion with two gazelles in his cross hairs
Both looking graceful and delicately desirable
But I can't have both

I would like the one who whispers into people's ears
about how she feels like an unfinished automobile
helplessly being carried on the assembly line,
moving centimeter by centimeter, towards me.
But whenever the two of us are together,
she would pretend to be miles away

Then again, I would like the other one
whose subtle glances, though transient,
are like the worms you put at the end of a fish hook
or the aromatic meat left in an animal trap
that makes you brush off caution
from the end of your sleeves
or put on the helmet and jump

It's going to be one way or the other
I tell myself as I lay all alone in the room,
one foot already over the threshold of sleep,
strange faces beginning to appear in the air
and very soon I would be pulled below the surface,
sinking slowly, towards the dark bottom of the other world

Before then there's a decision to make:
I can either go left or right
but I can't have both.
Especially when they're room mates

What if a job interview went like a game show:
each time you got the answer right,
you got rousing applause
followed by the thunderous roll of drums
and an explosive shower of shimmering confetti.

And just when you thought the celebration was over
and the quiet thud in your chest was beginning to return,
pretty girls in pink furry hats
would show off their long legs as they dance
from one end of the room to the other,
like you just won a million dollars.

But if you got the answer wrong
and your brow began to shed tears,
or your fingers stuck to each other, one by one
with each rhythmic inward dance of your knees,
the kind buzzer would go ERRGGGH!
Followed by applause
and a commercial break.

For if job interviews went this way
there would be no sudden gush of hormones
to kick-start your heart into high excessive activity
Nor energize your muscles to stretch
like thousands of short tightropes of flesh.

Rather, the thought of having to deal with
four imposing figures, staring at you,
ready to pummel you with questions,
in a battle ground filled with big tables and chairs,
would not feel like hell with fluorescent lighting
But like an event where you are a minor star in the sky