A cabin fire.
from the window,
behind curtains,
rain cracks like logs
in a cabin-grate
fire. we could be somewhere
on holiday now,
off in the mountains,
with red wine in goblets,
not to mention the red, wine-
flushed cheeks. sitting together
on a rug of real
sheepskin, and rough walls
built by workmen
and rented to tourists
like us. the sound
of the rain
goes on without
stopping. the sky
dribbles into
the earth. and inside, I admit
we are warm, but not
comfortable. this is
no holiday. frankly,
I said something
thoughtless at dinner.
we’re neither
in the best
of our moods.
Peace.
beer bottles
broken
at night-time,
and all morning
the sparkle
and light.
someone
in car
in an alleyway.
a dog
smelling dropped
bags of chips.
Never the topic.
to make a poem
a builder could read
or just recognise.
such aspirations.
such condescension
made worse for being true.
right now, I work
each day with electricians
and carpenters,
and they’d never guess
if you asked
that I wrote poetry.
we talk, sometimes,
about girls and cars.
talk about dogs,
about politics. art
is never the topic – well,
sometimes tv.
we stand outside
the maintenance office,
drinking tea like water
from cups. we eat
sandwiches. smoke
cigarettes.
Fascism rises
like underdone chicken
in europe again,
and america. what,
this time
will save us?
not poetry.
never poetry.
The chef.
she has
two shelves
of spices,
a windowsill of herbs
and a fridge
filled with bottles of sauces,
and meanwhile
your idea
of a good meal
is boiled water
with meat
and two kinds
of vegetable. you boil it
hard and ignore it,
then snap back and remember
when it’s eventually
soft enough to chew.
you’re healthy anyway – at least
you try to be.
whenever you go over
she asks what you want to eat
and thinks
you’re being polite
when you say
you don’t mind.
but really,
you don’t –
anything is better
as the stuff you have at home.
you’re putting on weight,
and you know it,
getting to know her.
but god,
the energy
after a good plate
of butter chicken on rice
or perogies
with a side of beetroot
two draughts of beer – you could fuck her
six ways left
of wednesday
and will – she
wants you to –
it’s amazing
what flavour
can do.