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!

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

It didn't start off with a white cake
carrying forty-something candles
Rather, it was the chimes of the phone alarm
later, a cold run through the foggy streets
then back home to nurse the joint pains

The phone buzzed with messages
first from the wife, then my best friend,
then my brother, to whom I got to respond
"and the same to you too"
then my ghost friend, who only sends a message
on this day, each year
before vanishing out of my life

I'm home today, having a party of sorts
with the twin monitors
and the tailless mouse
At least they look dressed up for the occasion
sitting on the workstation
in their black soft-plastic jackets
They don't dance or sing or even mumble anything
They only look down at my fingers
going back and forth
around the letters of the alphabet
as I go to work while sitting at home

At this age, I muse to myself
some people don't want to remember
how they have moved closer
in the journey towards
forgetting one's name, family
and eventually how to eat

And almost imperceptibly
we have become the dad, or mum
or auntie that we looked up to
or held under the magnifying glass
and judged for their decisions on our lives

But now I'm only trying
to live in the moment
as I pour a bit of whiskey
swirl it around gently in the glass,
watching if it shows
within its brown circular current
the regrets of the past
or the shrouded future
and hopefully, the number of my age

In one of the pictures, the teacher sent
your downcast face mirrored the day
of the school trip
Your mother said it is because
of the cold you came down with

In your little hands
was a fluffy grey rabbit
looking lifeless, perhaps
afraid of the courage you had
to hold another creature
even though you do not
yet understand the world

Your sister, right beside you
with her typical frown
holds an identical rabbit
representing the paradox
of what the two of you are to each other

When three and a half years ago
I watched, with masked emotions
both of you laying in separate
transparent plastic capsules
trying to make sense of the new world
you had been brought into
the lines and numbers on the screen
the only signs that you will make it

And here you are, in another picture
this time the little fish pond reflects
your smile and that of the other kids
peering over the wall into its shallow depth
each of their innocent faces an untold story
of the anguish and joy
of bringing another human being
into the world.

There are those that want it
to come to a complete halt,
frozen solid and white,
like an ice sculpture
stuck in a peculiar pose.
This is the only way
to stop that heart-wrenching
moment,
that robs them of their blue skies.

Then there are those that want it
to quicken its footsteps
and flip by, like the pages of
a notepad giving motion
to squiggly drawings,
in order to get the next paycheck
or start that dream job.

Me? Every now and then I want it
to make a stop by the side of the road
and enjoy a leisurely doughnut,
maybe join in on the freckled giggles
of the little girls hula hooping
on the concrete pavements,
and sing nursery rhymes of
broken eggs and fiddles.

But sometimes I just don't care
whether time shoots up the skies
or gets weighed down with iron,
especially when I've got
my favorite chicken goulash
served with fine couscous
on an afternoon such as this one,
where the sky frowns with dark clouds
and spits angry beads of rain.

As far as I'm concerned,
the brown-eyed little boy
on the corner of the street
could be the keeper of time,
making sure it walks on nonchalantly,
with no regard to people's wishes,
leaving in its wake footprints of
sadness, joy and everything in between.

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

We all want to fit people into boxes -
big boxes, small boxes, green boxes,
sometimes wooden boxes
or even cake boxes.
And then quickly scribble short
mental descriptions on the memo pad of the brain
to save 3 months of getting to know them.

So when I saw her, sleepy lost eyes,
the escorts to a head of black hair,
contrasting with light brown skin,
it stirred primal curiosity.

She spilled over when I put her in a plastic box.
Then she was too springy to fit in the Pringles can.
So I tried to fit her in a wooden box,
one with wrought iron hinges.
But she came out of the bottom.

I have since come to accept
that she doesn't fit in any box
or receptacle for that matter.
That is what tempts you to take a little peek,
to look into the depths of her composition:
smell her fear, taste her happiness,
rub your hands through her shyness
to see how they make her eyes look down.

All I know is, when she spends hours
talking to you,
and brings you thoughtful gifts
that create restore points of happiness
somewhere in your brain,
that is her saying "I like you".

I might never discover the taste of her lips,
nor the warmth of her athletic body.
But whenever she smiles, pure and innocent,
I think of a box, wrapped with shiny blue paper,
whose contents are unknown
waiting to be opened.

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.

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.

A little poem stirs me awake
in the morning, before the alarm goes off.
It follows me around as I brush my teeth -
dashing left and then right, pecking
continuously at my unkempt scalp

In the afternoon it is the shadow
that sweeps the dusty street behind me,
imitating my short heavy steps
pretending to be on its own journey

I nudge it gently away as I enter the office
but it is the words floating from my boss' mouth,
the hot tea warming my assistant's cup
the glass windows as they swing back and forth,
and the tiny drops of water that magically
turn to air as soon as the cleaner's mop leaves the floor

In the evening when I sit to read a book
it ghosts ahead of my eyes,
stooping after every few words
to put the next into a plastic bin,
transforming the page
into a crossword puzzle

Until finally I throw up my arms
shuffle to the overpopulated table
and begin to unravel the message
sent from the neural galaxy
that was awake when the rest of me died

There are periods when my mind goes flying
Like a butterfly in a field of flowers
It settles briefly on one sweet happy thought
Then flies away to the next inviting one

In one of these moments I think of you
Shouting and yelling at the kids
"Keep quiet or I'll kick you!"
"Sit down and eat your food!"
In your quiet, gentle disposition though
You wouldn't, as they say, hurt a fly

I imagine you in your little room at night
Laying on the bed in your t-shirt and boxers
Thinking about your life on its journey
As it drives on through junctions and red lights

You think about the time we spent walking
Aimlessly in the mall, sharing jokes
How funny and interesting I am
Meanwhile, I think about calling you
To share in the seesaw stories of your day

But most often I would like to be sitting
Beside you, listening to your jokes
Running my hands through your dark hair
Down to your slender neck and waist
Until I pull you close enough
And our lips meet

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.

What great pleasure it is
to not have to figure out
if the tuna sandwich is a boy or girl
before it becomes a part of me.

I don't have to wonder
if the tasty adjectives I'm going to use
to glorify it will need to multiply
or even worse, change sexuality,
if I decide to have more than one

This afternoon, I'm trying to find
the appropriate tense to describe
how the wind whistled
over the empty plastic cup last night,
startling the old dog
and setting the cat's ears twitching
But then I remember, I don't even know
the word for "whistle" in French

But I wish someone were here
to bring good tidings to my appetite
and perhaps bid my footsteps well
when I get up to take the 10 minute walk
back to the house
where the smell of freshly baked croissants
have soaked into the walls

At least I know they're filled with yellow cheese
and this time I remember
one of the first words I learned
in this intricate language I'm wrestling
is fromage.

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.

Just to add to what John said
with regards to the points
raised by Emily when she echoed
the arguments presented earlier
by Kevin

Without overlooking
the guidance that was reiterated
by the Deputy Director
about the need
for swift action from us

I propose we form a committee
composed of people in this meeting
who will meet later
to put the issue on the table

cut it open with a scalpel
expose the underlying problems
analyze and put it back with nine stitches
then we can report
that the first draft
is ready

He looks in the mirror
He sees himself
Young, driven and about the make
the same mistakes again
I look back at him, feeling
young, driven and wiser

Each attempt to right the wrongs
of the past
to live a second life through me
is like one rock striking another
until one day
age finally numbs the sparks
and the reflections in the glass
turn to one of understanding

When I am older
I want to look in the mirror
at my son, proud at the
refined version that he is
knowing that I did not tell him
how to live his life

I want to snore
softly into the pillow
toss and turn a few times
wrapping myself tightly with my arms

I want to snuggle
under the weight of the blanket
sheltered from the cold rain
beating the streets outside

I don't want to have that peeing dream
filled with relief, warmth and regret
Neither do I want to share the bed
with anyone
not today, not this time.

I prefer to be stuck in the dream
where the twins are constantly giggling,
and running after each other,
their big sister, having her hair undone by her mum.
And I, looking in from the doorway
always present in their daily lives.

The simple act
of throwing cups of cold water
hurriedly, several times
over the head and shoulders,
when taking a bucket shower,
is nothing I look forward to
in the morning.

An equally boring activity
is the simple act
of shoveling forkfuls of food
almost mechanically
into the mouth
with stainless steel fingers.

But the simple act
of gazing into your eyes -
across the small circular island
holding the steam-spewing thermos,
and the yellow and white eggs
silently sizzling beside freshly baked bread,

at that time in the morning
when the birds have just started
the second round of greetings -
is pure happiness

Sometimes all we have to do
all there is to do
is to hold on to the ledge,
tightly, until straining veins
at the back of our hands
grow like roots seeking water,
until sore fingers silently pray
under the weight of our predicament
as we wait for the storm

and when it starts, some days
it can be as bearable
as accidentally slamming the door
on a finger, heart pounding wildly,
calling out in suffocation,
deep within the confines of soft tissues

other days, it seems to take a deep breath
pulling back heavily on the whip
before striking with barbed malice,
trying to pry open
the hinges holding our inner beings.

At one point, the winds of time
will slowly blow the dark clouds south
bringing oxygen, nutrients and hope
and we can let go of that ledge
turn around with a fortified soul
and step into the sunshine.

It's cold outside and I sit hunched in the car,
curiously watching my wavy reflection
act out my slightest movements
in the foggy window. 
Idleness taps on my shoulder
and slowly my mind drifts from the window
to the hobbling drunks on the street,
and then to life, my life.

I can't help but think there's a magic
wand, or perhaps a baton, in the
hands of a master conductor,
directing my life with the precision
and planning of a jewellery heist.

There were times when I wanted a door
to be opened where the sun rises 
with hopeful rays and opportunities,
right over the green hills,
where birds with colourful plumage sing.
It was opened with a little bit
of creaking and some personal effort.

There were other times that despite
all the pushing, pulling and
lifting, the door would not open.
Sometimes a side-door appeared 
like a scene right out of The Matrix. 
And though I longed not to open it,
I usually did, more out of a lack
of alternatives.

It has began to drizzle now
and my eyes trail the little drops of rain
that seem to be holding hands
as they run down the window.
I keep musing on how the side-doors
have usually led to brightly lit corridors.
And how initial moments of despair
have turn out to be just as sweet
as the cherries on the hills.
Maybe even better.

Or is it just me trying to paint
events with positive colours?
Or truly, there's a hand, surely a baton,
at work, conducting the symphony of my life?

When I pass by a woman in the streets
and the fragrance of her perfume teases my nostrils,
it makes me want to kick off my shoes
and drift off the smell of her perfume,
a human kite of some sort
wafting higher and higher
as the strength of her perfume allows.

Later in the day, when the scent of her perfume
has waned, I will be forced to sail a few inches from her ears.
At this point I will be close enough to see
the faded birthmark on her cheek,
where perhaps her daughter had kissed that morning
before running off to catch the school bus.

And where now she rubs, as she sinks into deep thought,
and I wonder, since I've been flying freely for awhile,
if the Wilburs would be proud to see
the first flight without wings,
and without the burning of centuries-old liquids,
and the beginning of a love story
all at the same time.

Last night, talking to the guy
I was trying to get to know
while the waitresses were clearing up the tables
I wondered how it would feel to go into the Nile

I would sneak out after lunch,
fire up the old Cherokee, roll down the windows,
let the wind hastily brush my cheeks
and when it catches my hair and pulls it back,
I'll pretend I'm in a bright red convertible.

I would go through the windy roads with the faded signs
Meander through some unknown streets until I get lost
then make my way back through the bridge
that is held in the air by its concrete legs
until I reach the hotel by the river Nile.

At last by the Nile, sitting at the edge of the deck,
I would observe how the river
dances lightly with the wind
swirling left, then to the right,
carrying the tiny slender insects
on a journey where they really go nowhere

I would imagine, first dipping
my right foot into the water,
watching, as my red coloured toes,
drown below the surface,
until my copper and silver anklets
are fully submerged.
Then my left foot will follow

I would close my eyes and feel my soul
slowly leak from my heart, down
through my legs and now shrivelled toes
and finally into the river.
Where it would spread out
in tiny advancing interwoven links
until it becomes one with the heart of the Nile

In the heart of the Nile I would be able to feel
the gentle breeze brushing the surface of the river,
the silent walks of the white egrets foraging for food
and the gentle sway of the boats
as they rock the fishermen to sleep
at the edge of the river.

But his voice brings me back to the present
where the wind has begun to blow cold.
His warm voice and wry smile,
along with the two shots of dry Tequila,
have awakened tingling thoughts in my head.
And I wonder, how it would feel
to show him my shiny waist beads.