frying plantains in Tanzania
with rice - so much rice
ageing postmen with bus passes and metal knees
carrying keisters of it
a thousand different ways
slow walkers
married, always
frittering away chances or just
connected,
with the mortal coils of the market?
big coat on in the Kalahari
your scorpions absent from the guest list,
exiled.
the brown bears caged, but should things have
really.
come to this?
fierce heat.
fizzing geysers rumpled by grey fluorescent lights and
plagued,
by the speeding steam trains of their past that took them to
SO MANY GREAT PLACES but they only recall the
endings.
the crashing off the tracks,
the unexpected landslides
revolve
navigate the ridge and don’t funk from looking down.
it is better this way.
stamp the scorpions in.
£5 on the door.
take the free round and dance around their nimbus because even though you WILL NEVER
know them,
you would NOT
BE HERE.
without them.
your corner patch
a feral patch given over to woodworms and weeds
but a patch without chains,
shaded by roses suffering a kind of pressure you will never understand.
the naan breads arrived 40 minutes early and ruined your bath but
WHAT
A
PRIZE.
to exist in a rainforest where naan breads are possible.
and ferns unfurl,
then hang,
and rise again.
frying plantains in Tanzania
slow married women bearing grain
carry your cactuses out into the sun.
feed them.
watch them.
be naked with your scorpions and really feel the
football finals
the canal gates
the shooting stars, zooming by
through the windows of the train.
