[ poetry - august 06 ]
An unknown language barks across the linoleum
while I cough in my wristband, hammer out a
fondle it into the shape of the only museum
I know. The kitchen mumbles to the applause of a
and friends of no distinguishable shape or size
soap their mitts, heads foregrounding an avalanche
of frothing Trivial Pursuit cards. No
we touch the board, feeling among wrappers,
out toes - for those all important fractions of pie.
The men re-enter, bells tinkling booted ankles,
carrying thick slabs of accordion - their slow
proceed to tune up; a sourced lung then dampens
our un-scrunched ears. Outside two accordions on
rip chunks from Auld Lang Syne. We go for Chinese.