Starbucks; hiss and steaming muzzles
where the thinnest person crunches
a door-shut again and again
because it’s winter, draughty, freezing.
In concrete, Canary Wharfe shudders
and a fat lady hangs an ermine coat,
spills her coffee – cappuccino.
No one mentions the gigantic puddle
until a tiny Chinese barmaid,
smiling, mops it mostly up with paper towels.
Unconscious, we avoid the messy circle,
un-angry
if you call that, in your opinion,
a proper word.
My son has a marvelous habit of telling
strangers that this very day is his birthday
and they, confused, can’t fathom the truth
but trust his nodding smile, congratulate
the rascal on reaching a mighty fine age
although sometimes they do seem surprised by the notion
that a boy so strange and acting childlike
could be ‘eighteen!’ but if you reckon
that every day is a birthday, he’s actually
at an age over six thousand and five hundred;
older than anyone else on the planet
(that is, according to conventional wisdom).
So he had a chat with Socrates,
shared a drink with an under-aged Jesus,
bounced in a chariot with Boedacia
and learnt his marvelous habits from Merlin;
like telling stories, beading the eye,
smiling, messing. challenging, pushing,
being himself, parading the fool
and testing whether magic is happening:
my son has a marvelous habit of telling.
Brian wasn’t looking for trouble,
when he entered the ward’s military kitchen
but, there, a young and wounded man
asked him ‘You a conchie chum?
You look healthy, willing and able.’
He answered simply, flat, straightforward;
‘That’s the way I read the Bible!’
The soldier snorted; reached for his mess tin.
‘Listen mate, I’m only eighteen;
back from France where my pal was shot
shouted for Mum as he clasped and dropped
(I’ve heard a lot of shouts for Mum)
but at Dunkirk I got hands on a German,
stuffed his face in water ‘til his lungs were clogged.
I shouted him down, kicking, ‘til he wasn’t moving.’
Eye met eye at the door of the kitchen,
A smile,
look down.
‘Thanks
Yes thanks
for listening.’
